The Star of Lancaster (39 page)

The King lay in his bed. His face was distorted by the hideous pustules which stood out all over it; his body was shrunken and there was a stiffness in his hands and feet so that he feared he was losing the use of them.

He dared not show himself. He relied on his closest friends and his sons. Thomas was his favourite and he wished that he had been the eldest, although there were times when he recognised a certain strength in Harry which the others did not possess, and then he would feel that the realm would be safe in his hands. Thomas was milder than Harry although he too had
been involved in riotous conflict in East Cheap, which created something of a scandal. John, who was by far the most sober of the family, had been involved but that was only because he was accompanying his brother. Even young Humphrey was developing a taste for the night life of London. They were a wild brood, his sons. Odd to think that gentle little Mary had produced them.

At least he had something to be thankful for. He had produced sons – wild though they might be; and both his marriages had been happy ones. He could not have chosen better than Joanna, except for the fact that her family – by the nature of their geographical position – were inclined towards France. But there were internal difficulties in that country now – with Burgundy and the mad King and the wanton Queen. Fortunately, thought Henry, for they were causing little concern to England now; and he had no great wish to go to war, unlike Harry who was straining at the leash. Harry was ambitious. He wanted not only the crown of England but the crown of France.

Peace, thought Henry, that is what I long for now. Would to God I were well enough to go on a pilgrimage. God knows I have sins enough to wash away. There had been a prophecy made years ago that he would die in Jerusalem. There seemed little likelihood of that now, unless his health improved and he abdicated in favour of Harry. But if he were granted the miracle of good health, he would not dream of leaving the country.

The people loved Harry. He had noticed it when they were together. All the cheers were for Harry. He had that certain quality which drew men to him. A Plantagenet quality although he had the looks of a de Bohun. His father had never
had it, for all his strength and power; Edward the King had had it, so had the Black Prince.

He felt angry because it had been denied him.

They never liked me, he thought. If I said I would abdicate tomorrow they would cheer themselves hoarse for Harry.

And what of me? He would tell me what I must do. He would remind me a hundred times a day that he was the King.

‘Never will I give up, my son,’ he murmured. ‘Death’s is the only hand which will place the crown on your head.’

Harry was hand in glove with his Beaufort relations. Trust them to go where the pastures looked greenest. It was an indication that they thought there was not much time left to him.

They had supported him whole-heartedly at one time. Of course they had. Their fortunes were firmly tied up with those of the House of Lancaster. His half-brothers – result of his father’s abiding passion for Catherine Swynford. Clever men all of them. And now they veered to Harry. They were going to uphold him, even if it meant going against the King – for the old King was not long for this world.

‘The King is dead!’ they would cry. ‘Long live the King.’

He was sad; he was in pain. He had committed a great sin in compassing the crown and it had brought him nothing but bitterness.

Harry liked to discuss his plans with John, who was his favourite brother, and his uncles Henry and Thomas Beaufort. Henry had been made Bishop of Winchester and Thomas, Duke of Exeter and Chancellor of England; they had been specially favoured as the sons of John of Gaunt and they had inherited a good deal of their father’s shrewdness.

Their elder brother John Beaufort, Earl of Somerset, was dead and there had been a rift in the family when the King’s son Thomas had married Somerset’s widow for when Thomas had demanded her estates Henry Beaufort had refused to give them up.

In the quarrel, the Prince had taken sides and was in favour of his uncle rather than his brother and this had, of course, made a great coolness between them, and Thomas, knowing that their father was not on the best of terms with the Prince of Wales, did his best to turn the King still more away from the heir to the throne.

It was an uneasy situation. It brought Harry closer to the Beauforts who as Bishop and Chancellor were powerful men; and as everyone knew now of the King’s fearsome disease which often kept him out of sight for long periods, an uneasy tension was growing up in Court circles. It was working towards a rift and it seemed that before long there would be a King’s circle and one made up of the Prince’s supporters.

At this time a new conflict had arisen in France.

After the death of Isabella in childbed her husband Charles of Angoulême, who had become the Duc d’Orléans when his father had been murdered, married again. This time his bride was the daughter of the very powerful and warlike Count of Armagnac. Charles of Orléans was of a gentle nature, a lover of the arts, thoughtful, with a hatred of war, but he was in the hands of his forceful father-in-law who wanted to establish the power of the House of Orléans which meant destroying that of Burgundy.

Civil war in France was something which England could not fail to be pleased about. It was always so much better to let an enemy destroy itself than to waste one’s own strength doing it.

The Burgundians sent to England to ask Henry for his help and offered in payment for it a bride for the Prince of Wales, Anne, the Duke’s daughter.

Harry had no desire for the match, but he did think that a force should be sent to the Burgundians. Let Frenchman fight Frenchman. That was a good plan. There would be fewer in the field when he went over there to fight for the crown of France, which he fully intended to do when he was safe on the throne of England.

Henry considered the matter. He was feeling very ill. Peace, that is what we want, he thought. It is unwise for us to embroil ourselves in the affairs of another nation.

‘Nonsense!’ cried Harry. ‘It will be to our advantage.’

‘I am against it,’ declared Henry. ‘There shall be no force sent to Burgundy’s aid.’

It seemed that that settled the matter; but on the day he made that statement the King suffered another attack, which was even worse than those which had preceded it. His face became an unsightly mass of horrible pustules which stood out all over it and when he touched his skin and felt them he fainted and had the appearance of a dead man.

The doctors came and said that he could not last long, but a few days later he recovered and even his face was slightly less unsightly.

He must remain in his chamber, though. He could not show himself to the people or even the Court. Only those in his immediate circle should see him. The Queen ministered to him; she was gentle and reassuring, though it was hard to recognise in this poor maimed shrivelled creature in the bed the romantic Plantagenet who had come to Brittany an exile from his own country.

Harry took over the reins of government and the first thing he did was send men and arms to the Duke of Burgundy.

As a result of his actions the Orléans faction was defeated and it was victory for Burgundy.

The King did not die. In a few weeks he had recovered sufficiently to resume his duties. The first thing he discovered was that his son had gone against his wishes and sent troops to Burgundy.

He was incensed. He immediately sent for the Prince and demanded to know why he thought he could act in a manner opposed to his father – and his King’s – wishes.

Harry replied that clearly the side to support was that of Burgundy. They had won, had they not? Who knew, they might be of help to him if he went into France at any time.

‘Your fingers itch to lay hold of the crown, Harry,’ said the King.

‘I but think of the future.’

‘And I am such an old and feeble man that I no longer warrant obedience.’

‘You are the King and must be obeyed.’

‘Until you think me dead. You have to wait awhile yet, my son, before that crown is yours.’

‘My thoughts were not on the crown, only on what I believed to be best for England.’

‘And King Henry . . . the Fifth, eh?’

‘You are mistaken. I rejoice in your recovery.’

‘You rejoice! Look at me . . . if you can bear it. What have I become? This accursed sickness has taken hold of me, but God and all his saints, Harry, there is life in me yet and while there is I shall be King.’

Harry bowed his head.

The King dismissed his son. He had made up his mind; he was going to show Harry and his council that there was only one King in England and that was himself.

He had decided, he told them, to send aid to the Armagnacs. He was going to support Orléans against Burgundy; and to show his good faith, he was going to send his son to France with troops and supplies.

He sent for Prince Thomas, his favourite. Would to God he had been the elder, he thought; and yet he knew in his heart that this second son lacked that quality of leadership which Harry had inherited from his great ancestors. In a moment of clarity he thought: Is it possible to be jealous of one’s own son? And he wondered if great Edward the Third had ever been jealous of the Black Prince. Never! He had let the battle honours fall to him rather than accept them himself. But the Black Prince and his father had worked hand in hand. It was not the same with him and Harry; they were pulling different ways.

Thomas came to him. Henry faced him, with his back to the light. It was a habit of his now to stand in the shadows; people knew this and had cultivated a habit of looking at him as little as possible which they knew was what he wanted.

‘Thomas,’ said Henry, ‘I am sending a force of eight thousand men to France to assist the Orleanists.’

Thomas was aghast.

‘I thought we were on the side of Burgundy.’

‘Your brother is,’ answered the King wryly. ‘That does not necessarily mean that I am. But the side I favour is the one this country will support.’

Thomas smiled slyly. Another piece of contention between
father and heir. That amused him. Harry really was a little too sure of himself.

‘Thomas, I want to know, whom do you think we should support. Orléans or Burgundy?’

‘My lord, if you support the Orleanists then so must we all.’

‘Except your brother.’

‘His support would be of little use without that of you, Father.’

‘I believe that to be true. Your brother saw fit to act against my wishes while I was indisposed. Now I am better I propose to act against his. What say you to leading the force into France?’

Thomas was clearly delighted.

‘I shall not wish you to go merely as Prince Thomas, my son. I have decided to bestow a Dukedom on you. What say you to the Duke of Clarence?’

Thomas fell on his knees declaring that he would serve his father with his life.

He almost forgot and tried to take his father’s hand to kiss it. Then he remembered that his father’s hands were always kept out of sight. There was a rumour that his fingers and toes had started to drop off. He did not know whether this was so for he was never allowed to see them.

He stumbled to his feet. He could not embrace his father. He could do no more than reiterate his willingness to serve him.