The Star of Lancaster (2 page)

T
he walls of the convent rose serene and beautiful among the green meadows. Close by were the grey walls of Pleshy Castle, the home of the little girl who was seated at the table her lesson book spread out before her. How quiet it was in the convent! she was thinking. There was a peacefulness here which she found very comforting, the more so because she had become aware of a certain turmoil in the castle.

Mary had always been a little in awe of Eleanor, her elder sister, and perhaps more so of Thomas, Eleanor’s husband. He was a very important man, of course; and Eleanor was proud to be his wife. She was constantly reminding her little sister that
her
children would be royal because Thomas was the King’s son.

It was true. Thomas of Woodstock, as people called him because of the place where he was born, was in fact the Earl of Buckingham and the youngest son of King Edward the Third and Queen Philippa. Mary could remember when he and Eleanor were married. Her father had been alive then and there had been great rejoicing at the castle, for it was a brilliant
match for the de Bohuns, even though Humphrey de Bohun was a very rich man owning as well as Pleshy Castle those of Monmouth and Leicester and a mansion in the City of London; and, although it was because of his immense wealth that the marriage had been approved by the royal family, the de Bohuns had been well aware of the honour done to them.

Then everything had changed because her father – Humphrey de Bohun to give him his full title – had died and his vast fortune was to be divided between his two daughters for there was no male heir. Thus Eleanor, wife of royal Thomas, and ten-year-old Mary became the richest heiresses in England.

Eleanor was delighted about that; so was Thomas; Mary was amazed at their excitement. What difference did it make to them? she wondered. They had been very rich before. What more could they want?

When she asked this, she was sharply told by Eleanor not to be foolish and she was subdued for she had always been very conscious of Eleanor’s seniority. Eleanor had always made her aware of it, even before their father’s death. She was
much
older, Eleanor had pointed out, and Mary was only a child. She must do as she was told by those of superior knowledge and that naturally meant an elder sister.

Brooding now over those days as she sat within the peaceful walls of the convent her books lying neglected before her, she was thinking of all that had happened since her father’s death and the attitude of Eleanor and her husband towards her. It was almost as though they were planning something.

The thought made her feel slightly uneasy and she was more than ever aware how pleasant it was to be in the convent among the gentle nuns. Presently one of them would come and
look at her work. If it was good, little would be said, for it was implied that they expected it to be good; if it was carelessly done or betrayed an ignorance of the subjects set there would be a gentle reproof which strangely enough hurt her more than anger and contempt would have done.

Mary liked the nuns; she liked the convent; the atmosphere fascinated her. The Abbess had told her that the Poor Clares lived only to serve. They moved about the convent like grey silent ghosts for if they wished to speak to each other they must first receive permission to do so from the Abbess. They slept on hard boards; they fasted; they followed strict laws of poverty; and it was their duty to forget their own needs and devote their time to the care of the sick and the poor.

Often she compared their lives with those who lived in her castle home. Eleanor liked luxury and so indeed did Thomas. He had been accustomed to it all his life, for his father had kept an extravagant court and King Richard’s it was said was even more luxurious. Yet here within the convent walls, the Poor Clares slept on their hard boards, denied themselves food, taking only that which was necessary to sustain them that they might continue with their work, and Mary often thought how strange it was that there could be such differences in people’s lives.

Eleanor loved rich clothes and her seamstresses were working constantly on new garments for her. She would spend hours discussing which two colours harmonised – for all her gowns were two-coloured now in accordance with the fashion – and fine silks would be placed together and matched. Her cote hardies were very splendid indeed and often decorated with gems. Her hanging sleeves grew longer with every fresh gown and she was happy to hide her hair – which was straight and not very abundant – under a very elaborate head-dress.

Mary often thought what the nuns could have done with the money which her sister spent so freely on adorning herself. She often compared her with the nuns in their grey gowns, shapeless and loose, held in at the waist with their linen cords which were tied with four knots to represent, and to remind them of, their four vows. She compared the serenity of the nuns with the restless activity of her sister and it seemed clear to her which of them found life more satisfactory.

It was not one of the nuns who came to her but the Abbess herself. Mary was overcome with awe and she felt that such a visitation must be of some portent.

The Abbess said: ‘Well, my child, you have done your lessons for the day.’ She took the books and glanced at them; then her piercing eyes were on the girl.

A beautiful child, she thought. She had inherited more than her share of the family’s good looks. The de Bohuns had been benefactors of the convent for years and it was natural that this little girl should have been given over to them that they might educate her. It happened to many children of high birth and they must welcome it. Noble families were their life blood. They needed the patronage of those who in so many cases thought to expiate their sins by endowing a convent and by supporting it throughout their lives. It was ironical that such holy places were so largely dependent on sinners and doubly so that the greater the sins committed the more munificent were the gifts likely to be.

Now she was responsible for the education of this young girl; but she knew that ambitious Thomas of Woodstock and his equally ambitious wife had sent her here for a purpose. It would be good for the convent if that purpose was successful; but the Abbess did not wish it to be so unless it was the best
thing for the girl. With her dark hair and her gentle rather doe-like eyes, her heart-shaped face and her delicate features she showed signs of real beauty. Her nature was gentle but alert; she would be steadfast but the fact was that the Abbess was unsure. As yet, she thought, she is too young to decide.

‘It is a fine day,’ she said briskly. ‘Let us walk awhile in the gardens.’

This was strange. The Abbess had never walked in the gardens with her before, but one thing Mary had learned in the convent was not to ask questions so she shut her books immediately and rose.

She followed the Abbess through the stone corridors. They passed silent-footed nuns, who, preserving their silence, did not speak. In the gardens, where vegetables and herbs were grown, three nuns were working: they did not look up. In the bakery it would be the same, as in the wash-house and the ale house. They were all working steadily away and in silence as they would be in the still rooms where the herbs were being made into medicines for the use of the poor.

‘You see, my child,’ said the Abbess, ‘that here we are working for others. It is our mission in life to serve God through His unfortunate children.’

‘Yes, my lady Abbess, I have long been aware of that.’

‘And you think it a worthy vocation?’

‘Oh yes, my lady. I do.’

‘There are some who take their vows perhaps too early and later regret that they have done so. The world is an alluring place, my child.’

‘It is full of wickedness, my lady.’

‘And what do you know of that wickedness? Tell me that.’

Mary was silent and the Abbess smiled.

‘You know nothing of the world save that which you have heard. But you have seen something of what a nun’s life is like. And you think it a good life?’

‘Oh I do, my lady.’

They walked in silence for some moments then the Abbess said, ‘How old are you?’

‘I am ten years old.’

‘It is too young to make decisions which would affect the whole of your life.’

‘What decisions, my lady?’

‘My lord the Earl has said that if you should wish to join us here he would not stand in your way.’

‘To . . . join you here.’

‘To become one of us. What do you think, Mary?’

The girl was silent. To live the life of a nun! To work for the poor! To speak only when given permission to do so! She did not know what to say. When she entered the calm of the convent she had felt a happiness envelop her. That was because Eleanor had said something that she had felt to be unkind; and she was aware of the friction at Pleshy. Her brother-in-law was often angry about something. He and her sister were constantly discussing some grievance and assuring themselves that the day would come when they would be avenged. It made her uneasy; and for that reason she liked to get away. But to live here always . . . never to know what was really happening in the world . . .

The Abbess said: ‘My dear child, do not look alarmed. It would be years before anything was done. The Duke of Lancaster is your guardian and he would have to give his consent of course. His plans might differ from those of your brother-in-law and sister. But a great deal depends on your own wishes for we would not want you to be here against
your will. The decision is yours, remember that, but there is talk of its being a suitable life for you and I thought I would tell you this that you can be more watchful of us and our ways. I think it is never too soon to think of these matters.’

‘Thank you, my lady. I will think of them.’

‘That is well. I believe your groom is waiting at the stables to take you to Pleshy.’

The Abbess went into the convent and Mary made her way to the stables where her horse was ready for her.

In the solarium at Pleshy, Mary was embroidering an altar cloth for the chapel when her sister joined her. Eleanor was pregnant; she was hoping for a son; she already had one little girl about a year old and she thought herself rather ill used by life because her first-born had not been a son.

She sat beside Mary and said: ‘You look so happy. But you always do when you return from the convent. I believe you love that place.’

‘I do. It is very pleasant there and the nuns are so gentle. They are very good, you know, Eleanor.’

‘I do know it. There are no more worthy people in the world. Some of us have duties in other directions.’ She sighed as though she deplored having to be a great lady, go to Court, wear magnificent clothes, and would have counted it a great privilege if she had been allowed to put on the grey robe of the Poor Clares and devote herself to the needy.

Now that was too much for Mary to accept. Eleanor thoroughly enjoyed her worldly life, but she had been planning something for some time and Mary was beginning to understand what it was. Eleanor wanted her to go into a
convent; in fact she was trying to persuade her to. Her next words confirmed this.

‘Oh Mary, I am beginning to think you are more fortunate than I. I do believe God is giving you a chance to lead a very worthy life.’

‘You mean go into a convent? Become a nun?’

‘I see you are full of joy at the thought.’

‘No, Eleanor. That is not entirely true. I do think the nuns are good and I should like to be as they are . . .’

‘Well then, sister, is that not what I said?’

‘But there are other joys in the world. When I play with little Anne I think how fortunate
you
are to have her and then there is the new one who is coming. I do love the peace of the convent but I should love to be a mother too . . . to have babies like Anne.’

‘What nonsense!’ said Eleanor sharply. ‘Having a baby is by no means pleasant I can assure you.’

‘I know it is an ordeal but the reward is great. Sometimes I think the most wonderful thing in the world must be to have a child.’

‘You are speaking of matters of which you know nothing,’ said Eleanor sharply. ‘I think you should begin to consider going into the convent. I could speak to the Abbess.’

‘Eleanor, have you already spoken to the Abbess ?’

‘We have talked of your future, of course.’

‘And our mother?’

‘She has not given an opinion but I am sure that she would be happy for you to take up the holy life.’

‘I think she would respect my wishes in that,’ said Mary with spirit.

Eleanor opened her eyes very wide. ‘But is that not what we all wish to do?’ she demanded.

‘If that is so,’ replied Mary gravely, ‘it is for me to decide and I have some time yet to think about my future.’

‘Of a certainty you have,’ retorted Eleanor. ‘But I think you would be very happy to feel you had settled it.’

Mary was silent. Eleanor would be very happy, she was sure, if it was settled that her young sister should become a nun.