The Star of Lancaster (33 page)

Northumberland was determined. He was in communication with Owen Glendower; he had made a pact with the Scots, who now that he was against the English had a shared interest.

Henry was aware of this. He should have destroyed Northumberland when he had a chance. He might have known that the Earl would never forget nor forgive what Henry had done to the valiant Hotspur.

Henry marched north. It was winter and there had not been in living memory such a harsh one. The snow lay thick on the ground and in the northern part of the country particularly this would be known for years to come as the winter of frost and ice.

It was not the weather for fighting battles, but Northumberland was determined. He had to regain what had been taken from him and turn the usurper from the throne.

Henry had no alternative but to go into battle. This he did. His numbers were superior; his men were better equipped. The battle was brief and decisive and Northumberland fell from his horse when an arrow struck him wounding him fatally.

Henry was triumphant.

That must be an end to rebellion in the north. Men must understand what happened when they came against the King.

They had come to a small place called Green Hammerton and there it was decided they would stop for the night.

The King and his close attendants were lodged at a manor house while his company found lodging in the town and, cold as it was, some set up tents.

Henry was wet and cold; his limbs felt stiff and he wanted mulled wine, hot food and a bed on which to rest.

He removed some of his clothes and the wine was brought to him. Suddenly he threw the goblet from him, screaming, ‘What have you done? Who is the traitor? Who has thrown fire over me?’

Those about him recoiled in horror, for his face had grown a deep purple and they could see pustules appearing on his skin. He must have contracted some dreadful disease.

‘What is this?’ cried Henry. ‘What is it?’ He put his hands to his face. ‘Why do you look at me like that? What has happened to me?’

‘My lord,’ said one of the attendants, ‘we should send at once for your physician.’

Henry lay back on his bed. He touched the horror on his face. He knew it was the same which had been appearing on his body. Now he could hide it no longer.

There was one word which kept coming to his mind. Leprosy! He had seen it on his travels. Oh God, he prayed, let
this pass from me. Anything I will endure . . . Take my crown from me . . . Do anything . . . but do not afflict me with this. Richard’s death can be laid at my door, I know it. But it was for the good of the country. No, Lord, for the good of myself. Take this from me . . . and ask anything of me . . . and I will do it. I will bear it. . . but not. . . leprosy . . .

He could not leave his chamber. He could not be seen like this. He wondered what would become of him, of the country. Harry was too young yet. He kept praying incoherently. He touched his face. He knew that he looked hideous . . .

The doctors came. They gave him potions and unguents, and in a few days’ time the terrible pustules had almost disappeared. His face was still discoloured and the surface of his skin rough; but he could at least emerge.

The success of defeating Northumberland had become bitter. He turned his attention now to Glendower. Harry was on the Welsh front. Henry thanked God that his son was becoming a great soldier. He was doing good work in Wales and had already brought about the defection of several important noblemen who had been supporting Glendower.

Harry was successful in regaining Harlech and in capturing Glendower’s daughter and her Mortimer children after Sir Edmund had died in the siege.

The battle left Glendower without an army. He escaped but was still free to roam in his mountains and attempt to gather together a force. Henry, however, was confident that this would never amount to much more than an occasional skirmish. They would have to be watchful, nothing more.

The success was due to the brilliant leadership of young Harry. He was a son to be proud of. He was growing up. He was old enough in experience if not in years to command an army.

Henry could have felt more at peace than he had since he took the throne if it had not been that he was constantly on the watch for the greatest enemy of all, of whose identity he was not sure but which he greatly feared could be that dread disease leprosy.

Harry must marry. The sooner the better. He must get sons to follow him. The Lancastrian side of the Plantagenet tree must be strengthened.

Isabella of France was still unmarried. It might well be that after all this time the child had got over her obsession with Richard. She might be ready to consider a match – or her family might which was more to the point. And why should her bridegroom not be the once rejected Harry of Monmouth?

Chapter VIII

W
hen Isabella had returned to France she had quickly realised that something was very wrong at her father’s Court, and gradually she began to understand what it was.

Her father had bouts of madness. People did not at first talk about this to her. She just heard that he had attacks. These attacks could last for months and when they were in progress he would be shut up in the Hôtel St Pol, that Paris residence where she had spent much of her childhood. When he recovered her father was just as she had always remembered him, kindly and seeming in full possession of his senses, but she detected a wariness in both him and the people around him and she knew they were watching for the madness to break out again.

There was her mother – beautiful, and forceful so that she seemed to be the real ruler of France, with Uncle Louis of course.

Louis Duc d’Orléans, her father’s brother, had been appointed by the King to be Regent during his bouts of madness. The Queen who had great influence with the King had advised this and sometimes it seemed to Isabella that her
mother and her uncle wanted her father to fall into madness, for when he did Uncle Louis behaved as though he were the King and it was obvious to everyone – even young Isabella – that Isabeau acted as though Louis was not only the King on the throne but in her bed as well. The fact was that this adulterous intrigue between Queen Isabeau and Duc Louis of Orléans was becoming a scandal not only throughout France but beyond.

Then there was her father’s uncle the Duke of Burgundy, a serious-minded man, who deplored what was happening and made no secret of this.

It was a very unhealthy state of affairs and Isabella yearned as much as ever for the happy days at Windsor when Richard had ridden out to see her and they had been so happy together.

‘I shall never be happy again,’ she mourned.

She did however enjoy being reunited with her family. There were her three brothers and three sisters; for recently a new baby girl had been born. She was named Katherine.

The little girls were lodged at the Hôtel St Pol and no one bothered very much about them. When the King was ill he would be taken to a part of the Hôtel and shut in there with a few attendants. Isabella would often lie awake and listen for the strange sounds which came from her father’s apartments. She did what she could to look after the little girls for their nurses were not always careful and when Isabella told her mother this, the Queen said they should be dismissed but did nothing about it. She was too busy with her own affairs which mainly consisted of entertaining and being entertained by the Duc d’Orléans. Isabella thought the Duc the most handsome man she had ever seen and that her mother was the most beautiful woman. It seemed inevitable that they should be lovers. She
wondered whether her father knew. Everyone else seemed to, so perhaps he did too.

It was a strange life for one who had been a Queen of England; she clung to her memories of her life with Richard. Isabella would hold little Katherine in her lap and the others would cluster round her while she told them stories of her life at the English Court; and always Richard would appear in these stories, the knight in shining armour.

Isabella kept her ears open and discovered much of what was happening at her father’s Court. As soon as Uncle Louis had the power he had levied a tax on the clergy as well as the people which made them very angry. Some said: ‘We will not endure the rule of this profligate young man and his shameless concubine any longer.’

And the shameless concubine was Isabella’s mother!

Oh, it was a very unhealthy state of affairs.

It was difficult not to like Uncle Louis – who besides being handsome, was always good-tempered and generous; he was amusing and there was always laughter where he was; his clothes were exquisite and he was notorious for his extravagance. He always treated Isabella as though he were very fond of her and when she had first come to France he had professed himself to be very angry at the manner in which Richard had been treated. It had given her great comfort at that time to hear Richard’s praises sung and the usurper King of England vilified. ‘He and his son Harry, I hate them both,’ she said. ‘And they tried to marry me to Harry. I would have none of him.’

Uncle Louis said, Indeed not! She was far too beautiful and too important. What, a daughter of the King of France to marry the son of an impostor! True he held the title of King at this time, but how long would that last?

‘I will go and fight him on your behalf,’ he declared.

‘How can you, Uncle Louis?’

‘By challenging him, my dear. He has plundered you of your dowry and he has murdered your husband. I shall challenge him to face me in the lists.’

‘You would not do this, Uncle,’ she breathed.

‘I would indeed, my dear. I shall send a challenge to him without delay.’

In the flamboyant grandiose manner in which Louis of Orléans did everything he sent his challenge.

Her mother was delighted.

‘How like him!’ she said. ‘He is a very gallant gentleman.’ Then she added: ‘Henry will not accept, I promise you.’ But she was really promising herself. The last thing she wanted her lover to do was fight in a combat which could end in death.

She was right. Henry treated the challenge with scorn. ‘I know of no precedent which gives the example of a crowned King going into the lists to fight a duel with a subject,’ was his cold reply. ‘No matter how high the rank of that subject.’

This made Louis fume and fret. Queen Isabeau was with him when he received the reply and she sent for her daughter that she might realise what a gallant champion her uncle was.

‘I shall answer this!’ cried Louis. ‘I shall shame him.’

He sat down and wrote with Queen Isabeau standing over him, watching, applauding and stroking his neck as he wrote.

‘How could you allow the Queen of England to return to her country desolate with the loss of her lord, robbed of her dowry and everything she carried with her at the time of her marriage? Those who seek to gain honour should espouse her cause. Are not noble knights bound to defend the rights of widows and virgins of virtuous life such as my niece was known to lead? It
is for this reason that I challenge you.’ He added with sarcasm: ‘I must thank you for the care you have taken of me by refusing this combat which is more than you did for the health and the life of your royal and rightful King Richard.’

‘That,’ cried the Duc, ‘will upset him. I understand there is one thing that never fails to and that is to refer to the murder of Richard in Pontefract Castle. I’ll swear the deed will haunt him for the rest of his life. Yet if he had never committed it, how could he have become King of England?’

The note did sting Henry into reply.

Louis laughed over it with Isabeau as he read it aloud. Most indignantly did Henry deny that he had had a hand in Richard’s death. ‘God knows how and by whom my cousin – whom may God absolve – met his death, but if you are hinting that that death was brought about by me then you lie and will lie foully whenever you say so.’

Nothing more was done about the matter and the months passed. It seemed to Isabella that there was a perpetual tension as though trouble was ready to burst out at any moment. Her mother and Uncle Louis were quite blatant in their relationship; her father was overcome with melancholy; her father’s uncle, the Duke of Burgundy, was constantly urging the King to do something, threatening that if he did not he would lose his crown. Did he want to find himself in the position of the dead Richard of England? he demanded. Isabella wanted to protest. It was no fault of Richard, she wanted to cry out. It was due to the wicked ambitious men around him. But no one would listen to her, of course. She was afraid of the Duke’s son, who was known as John the Fearless, Count of Nevers. He was a man of violence, not caring what he said and of whom he said it. He always seemed to be at the
centre of some cause and vowing vengeance on someone. She was glad when he was not at Court.