The Star of Lancaster (36 page)

Life had not been quite what she had expected in England. She supposed that after her arranged marriage to the ageing Duke of Brittany it had seemed romantic when Henry of Lancaster had come to the Court – an exile needing comfort and help, and with a throne to win. And a far-off lover . . . that had been very romantic. Both of them waiting on fate. And
when fate had worked in their favour it had seemed like a miracle.

Well, the reality was somehow different.

Kings and Queens could not expect life to run smoothly for them. They were neither of them in their first flush of youth; she was thirty-three years old, Henry four years older; both had known other marriages – fruitful ones. She had her daughters here with her. More important perhaps was the existence of her sons, and their interests, closely allied with France, might not always be the same as those of Henry.

Henry’s daughter Blanche was married to Louis, son and heir of the Duke of Bavaria and Elector Palatine of the Rhine. The child had already left England when Joanna arrived. His second daughter, Philippa, would soon be departing for her marriage with Eric of Sweden, and Joanna’s own daughters would have to marry sooner or later.

There were too many cares in their lives for romance.

She was fortunate in having been able to form a friendly relationship with the Prince of Wales and she had been greeted warmly by other members of the family.

There was one in particular. She smiled at the thought of him. Joanna liked admiration – who does not? – and coming from such a person as the royal Duke of York it was very welcome.

Henry was deeply immersed in the affairs of the country. He had a great deal to occupy and worry him, and he was often morose. There was a reason for this which she had soon discovered.

It had alarmed her.

She remembered the scene in their bedchamber when he dismissed the servants and would not allow them to assist in his disrobing.

He had had to confess to her for she might easily discover his affliction for herself.

‘Joanna,’ he said, ‘a terrible misfortune has come upon me.’

His face had turned grey as he talked to her and that made more noticeable the marks on his skin which she had thought till then were due to cold winds or sitting too close to the fire, and that they would pass with the aid of balmy weather and unguents.

‘I am afflicted by a disease. I know not what it is. I had thought it would pass. But it does not. It affects my skin and at times I feel as though I have been doused in fire. The irritation is sometimes unbearable. Once it showed itself on my face . . .’ He touched his wrinkled skin. ‘It disappeared . . . or almost did. But I dread its return and it never goes completely away.’

She had looked at the marks on his body with growing uneasiness and tried to comfort him. She would consult the keeper of her stillroom. She believed there were ointments which could cure such afflictions.

But she was disturbed and so was Henry.

This man with the fear of a horrible disease which was advancing on him was very different from the romantic lover who had given her a forget-me-not to remember him by.

She had found unguents but they had no effect on him. A terrible thought kept occurring to her. Could it be leprosy?

As she mused one of her women thrust a paper into her hands.

‘The Duke of York himself gave it to me,’ whispered the woman. ‘He would have me swear to deliver it to no one but you.’

‘Oh, he becomes too foolish,’ said Joanna.

‘And reckless, too, my lady,’ giggled the woman. ‘’Tis to be hoped this does not come to the King’s ears.’

Joanna gave the woman a sharp push. ‘There is no need to
fear that,’ she said sharply. ‘I may show it to the King myself. There is nothing wrong, my good woman, in writing a verse to a lady of the Court, which is what the Duke has done. In the Courts of Provence and such places it was the natural order of the day.’

‘Yes, my lady,’ said the woman quietly.

Joanna looked at the paper.

It was verses, as she had expected it would be, and from that foolish young man. She must warn him. It was gallant of him to find her so beautiful that he sighed for her love, but he must remember that she was the wife of the King and such writing could be dangerous.

She would warn him when next she saw him, not to write so to her again.

She left her women and went to join the King. They would sit side by side in the royal box and watch the jousts. Young Harry would give a good account of himself she doubted not and the people would shout for him. There was something about the boy which won cheers wherever he went.

Henry’s face was grey beneath the velvet cap looped up at the side with a fleur de lys. His furred velvet mantle hung loosely on him. Joanna dared not ask him whether more spots had appeared on his skin. She could see a redness on his neck and she wondered what would happen when his face began to be really disfigured.

‘I see you looking in good health,’ he said.

She smiled warmly and heartily wished she could say the same for him.

‘Have you seen Harry?’ he asked.

‘No, but I look forward to his performance. I am sure he will be the champion.’

‘No doubt of it. The boy gives me cause for alarm, Joanna.’

‘Has he been in further trouble?’

‘I hear stories. They think they ought to tell me. I know he will be the champion. I know that he can lead an army. But there is more to kingship than that.’

‘He can win the applause of the people,’ Joanna reminded him. ‘They love him.’

‘The people love today and hate tomorrow,’ said the King ruefully. ‘Not that they have ever shown much adulation for me. I always had my enemies. I came to the throne through a back door you might say. That is never good for a king.’

‘You came because the people wanted you. They were tired of Richard. And you were the next . . .’

‘There was the young Earl of March, remember.’

‘A boy! They wanted you, Henry. You were King by election. You have done well for them.’

‘They do not like me. Perhaps they will like Harry better . . . that is if he mends his ways.’

‘What have you heard now?’

‘That he visits the taverns of London. That he spends hours in the company of low people. That he throws off his royalty and is one of them. It will not serve him well, Joanna.’

‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘I have in the past. There is an insolence about him. He is the Prince of Wales. He has the people with him. He implies that he does not need me. I believe he would be ready to take the throne from me.’

‘Never. He is high-spirited, that is all. He chafes against the bonds of royalty. Give him time. He will be a great king when the time comes . . . and I pray he will be a sober old greybeard by that time.’

‘You bring me comfort, Joanna,’ he said. ‘But there is one other matter which causes me concern . . . and were I to believe what is whispered it would bring me greater unhappiness than I suffer from the bad habits of my son.’

‘What is that?’ asked Joanna in surprise.

‘It concerns you . . . and my cousin of York.’

Joanna flushed slightly. ‘Oh you have been listening to tales. He is a foolish young man.’

‘And you are a beautiful young woman.’

‘Not so young. But this is nonsense. He fancies himself as a poet and I am a good target for his verse.’

‘He sends them to you?’

‘Yes, he does.’

‘And you?’

‘I read them and tell him he has much to learn.’

‘Of what matters?’

‘Of how to write verse for one; and of me for another.’

‘I like it not,’ said Henry.

‘My dear husband, trust me. I loved you when I was the wife of the Duke of Brittany but I did not tell you so. Never a word of what we felt for each other passed between us. I am a woman who respects her marriage vows and even if I felt a tenderness towards this man – which I hasten to tell you I do not – there would never be anything but friendship between us.’

‘I believe you,’ said the King. ‘But I do not trust him. There was a time when he was ready to support Richard against me. I might have lost my crown. Oddly enough he saved it for me. He was one of the conspirators who planned to rescue Richard and set him on the throne. He was then Rutland for his father was alive and he had not yet acquired the title of York, and suddenly he was afraid and confided in his father. My good uncle of York
saw at once what must be done. I was informed by both father and son of what was afoot and so the plot did not succeed.’

‘So you may well owe your throne to him.’

‘I may well do that but all the same I do not care for a man who changes coats so easily.’

‘Then you must believe that he is not a strong enough man for you to waste your thoughts on. I swear to you that nothing has passed between us but that which you know of.’

‘I believe you.’

‘Then you must not pay attention to such trivialities.’

‘Nothing that touches you can be trivial to me.’

‘I know it,’ she said, with her voice soft and tender. ‘May God smile on you. May he preserve you in peace and happiness for as long as we both shall live.’

He was moved. He had not been wrong when he had taken her as his second wife. That she lacked Mary’s meekness did not disturb him. Mary had not been meant to be a Queen.

He was satisfied with his marriage. It was one of the few aspects of his life which was satisfactory and he was not going to have it even faintly tarnished by his amorous cousin. He would be watchful of him and at the first opportunity he would know how to deal with him.

They went out together to take their places at the joust which was being performed in the Queen’s honour. They acknowledged the rapturous greetings of the company and sat at the balcony where all could see them. The Queen was beautiful and in his royal velvet Henry himself made an impressive figure. From the distance it was not possible to see clearly the havoc the disease was causing to his skin.

The opportunity came. York was a reckless young man; the kind who would be embroiled in some plot or other if he were given the chance. It might be why he was a close friend of the Prince of Wales.

After the death of Richard and the fact that people no longer could believe the story that he lived – for if he had Henry would never have been so eager to marry his son to Richard’s queen Isabella – the greatest bogey in Henry’s life was the young Earl of March. The older he grew the more likelihood there would be of discontented men rallying round him and stating his claim to the throne.

That was why when news came of the plot to rescue the young Earl of March and his younger brother from Windsor, where they were kept under the eyes of the King’s guards, and the Duke of York was proved to be involved in it, Henry was able to act justifiably and none could attribute his action to a jealousy regarding the Queen.

It was a plot worthy of York, thought Henry grimly. He was involved with his sister Lady de Despenser who was not a woman of the highest character and they had bribed a blacksmith to make a set of keys to enable them to open the doors of the apartment where the young captives were kept.

There was a period of great consternation when Henry learned that the two boys had been taken from Windsor. Henry visualised armies in the name of the Earl of March coming against him. Henry imagined that many would flock to their banner simply because they disliked him. His infrequent public appearances did not endear him to the people; how could he tell them of the terrible anxieties he suffered and that sometimes his face was so inflamed that he could not venture out? They did not like his foreign Queen either. Sometimes he
thought how popular he and Mary used to be when he was plain Bolingbroke, or Derby or Hereford. It was only when he had become Henry the King that the people had begun to dislike him.

York was no brilliant strategist and it was inevitable that any plot in which he was involved should fail. And so did this one.

After cleverly getting the boys out of Windsor he carelessly allowed their destination to be discovered, and it was not long before the two boys were sent back to Windsor and York was the King’s prisoner. Then the story came out. The blacksmith lost his life; it would have been unwise to allow York to suffer the same fate and make a martyr of him; he was sent to Pevensey Castle for safe keeping.

Henry had had his revenge. He had wanted York removed for he did not like the thought of a handsome young man writing verses to Joanna. Now was his chance. He could dismiss York from Court and no one could say he had not good reason for doing so, and Joanna would no longer be able to compare smooth-skinned York with her husband who grew more ill-favoured every day.

Joanna made no attempt to plead for him, which gratified Henry, and he was convinced that York meant nothing to her. York was one of those men who would always involve himself in dangerous situations in which he had little chance of achieving his goal.

There remained the matter of the Earl of March. The older he grew the more of a problem he would be.

Henry sent for Harry. When his son arrived Henry’s feelings fluctuated between pride and irritation. There was no question of his not being a fine specimen of manhood; all sign of that childhood weakness which had caused such anxiety to his
mother had disappeared. He was less Plantagenet than de Bohun, but looks were the only characteristics he had inherited from his mother. Her gentle meekness, her main characteristic, was completely lacking in young Harry. He was dark, with thick smooth hair; his nose was long and straight, his face oval; his teeth were outstandingly white and well shaped and he had a cleft in his chin. He had a glowing complexion which indicated extreme good health; there was a reddish tinge in his brown eyes which could be sleepily good-humoured or fierce when he was angry. Yes, he was a son to be proud of, with his lean body, above normal height, his limbs well formed and his bearing already that of a King. There was a vitality in him which seemed to be fighting to get out. It was a pity he wasted his energies in low taverns surrounded by men of similar tastes.