The Star of Lancaster (4 page)

She was very cautious, being eager to give no sign to Eleanor that she was in the slightest degree averse to Mary’s future in the convent.

She mentioned more than once the great admiration she had for the Poor Clares and the wonderful work they were doing.

Mary spoke glowingly of them and Eleanor purred like a contented cat.

The Countess said: ‘Your uncle Richard was saying that he should so like to see you. I told him that I would persuade you to come back to Arundel with me for a short visit. He said: I so long to see my dear nieces.’

‘I am scarcely in a condition to travel,’ Eleanor pointed out.

‘Alas, that is so,’ agreed the Countess. ‘Mary could come though.’

Mary cried: ‘I should so much like that.’

Eleanor looked a little taken aback but before she could speak the Countess said firmly: ‘Then so it shall be. We will set out tomorrow.’

Eleanor said: ‘Mary, you will not wish to leave your studies.’

‘But Eleanor, it will only be for a short visit. I long to go.’

‘Then you shall, dear niece,’ said the Countess quickly. ‘Later on, when you have the baby, Eleanor, you will come to see your uncle I know.’

‘Cannot he come here, my lady?’

‘He will, of a certainty he will. But he has asked me so particularly to take you both back with me. He did not think that you would be unfit to travel. Men do not understand these things. I must take
one
of you back. Mary, we must leave early. It is a long journey and I wish for an early start.’

Mary was clearly excited at the prospect of the visit and Eleanor could only shrug her shoulders.

It would be but for a few days and their aunt was clearly in favour of Mary’s taking the veil. Perhaps she would help to persuade her.

There was no need to worry.

It was exciting riding to Arundel with her aunt. Mary had forgotten how beautiful the Sussex countryside was. She could smell the sea and she remembered that the castle was only a short distance from the coast. The Countess had been talking about the pleasures of Arundel and the new dances and songs of which Mary had some knowledge because none could enjoy social life more than Eleanor and Thomas. There were often visitors at Arundel, explained her aunt. It was a great pleasure when they came with news of what was happening in Court. Not that she was ignorant of that, she was quick to add. Your uncle is in constant attendance on the King.

Mary did notice that, although while they were at Pleshy her aunt had talked a great deal about the Convent of the Poor Clares, stressing the good life led by the nuns, during the journey her conversation had changed considerably; and she seemed to be extolling the pleasures of life outside convent walls.

As the drawbridge was lowered and they rode under the portcullis and into the courtyard, the Countess said: ‘What joy there is in coming home. I always wonder when I return what will have been happening to the place while I have been away, what visitors we have had or who will be awaiting us. One of the best things in life is coming home.’

She looked side ways at Mary on whose face was an expression of understanding and shared excitement.

It will not be the convent life for her! thought the Countess. Lancaster will see to that.

Into the castle went Mary, to the chamber which had been made ready, there to wash off the stains of the journey and to prepare herself to go down to the great hall where the appetising smells which pervaded the castle proclaimed that food would soon be served.

One of the women of the household arrived to say that on the instructions of my lady she had come to help her dress. My lady had set out a gown for her as her own would not yet be unpacked.

Mary was astonished at the splendour of the garment. The surcoat was of fine blue silk and delicately embroidered with birds and flowers. Under the surcoat was a less loosely fitting gown in a delicate shade of green; the sleeves of the garment made it in the height of fashion for from the elbow they hung almost to her knees.

Mary was not used to wearing such fine clothes although she had seen Eleanor in them. ‘You like the colours of your nuns,’ Eleanor had said; and she had not cared enough to protest.

The serving girl brushed her dark hair and let it fall about her shoulders, saying:

‘My lady said not for you the wimple or the dorelet. Your hair is too pretty to be hidden.’

Mary felt like a stranger to herself when the Countess came to her chamber to see the effect and to conduct her down to the hall.

It was clear that her aunt was pleased by the transformation.

In the hall was the Earl who bade her welcome to the castle, and with him were his daughters Elizabeth and Joan.

Mary was glad that they were there. The boys were away from home – as was the custom with boys who always seemed
to be brought up in someone else’s home. But it was pleasant to meet her cousins.

The warmth of her welcome was heartening and she could not help feeling glad to have escaped from Eleanor who would have been highly critical of her and that would have spoilt her pleasure.

Mary was placed at the high table in between the Earl and the Countess and they talked to her about life at Pleshy and naturally the convent of the Poor Clares was mentioned.

‘The nuns are the best people possible to give a girl a good education,’ declared the Countess. ‘Poor creatures, what sad lives they lead.’

‘They are not in the least sad, my lady,’ said Mary hastily. ‘They serve God through the unfortunate and that brings them great happiness.’

The Countess laid her hand on that of her niece. ‘Indeed they do. I am sorry for them because they will never know the joy of having children. I speak as a mother, dear child. I wonder how many of them ever regret the life they have chosen when they hear children chattering and laughing together.’

Mary was silent.

This was a special occasion, whispered her uncle. They were so delighted, he and her aunt, that she had come. He was going to lead her into the dance when they had eaten. What did she think of that? Did she like to dance?

Oh yes, she loved to dance.

And music? Did she enjoy that?

She liked to sing. She played the guitar accompanying herself.

‘We must hear you,’ said the Earl. ‘Do you sing to your sister and her husband? It would be no use singing to the nuns, I’ll warrant.’

‘Oh no,’ she said with a little laugh.

‘This venison is to your taste, I hope,’ went on the Earl. ‘I’ll swear you’d not taste better at the King’s table. He has a fine palate, our King. Do you know he interests himself in the actual cooking of the food which is served at his table?’

‘The King has very unusual tastes for a king.’

The Countess laughed. ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘One could not imagine his father or his grandfather caring how much honey in proportion to mulberries was put into a moree.’

‘Does the King care about such matters then?’ asked Mary.

‘Indeed he does,’ replied the Earl. ‘He concerns himself not only with his cooks but with his tailors. He spends hours in consultations with these fellows who are, they say, getting a grand idea of their worth. He’ll be bestowing the Garter on one of them soon, some say, because he has produced some delicate recipe or a particularly magnificent cote hardie.’

There was laughter at the table. And then while the sotiltees were being served the minstrels and the mummers arrived.

It was a wonderful entertainment, more amusing than anything she had seen at Pleshy. The mummers danced and pirouetted in the most agile manner; in their grotesque masks they looked like beings from another world. Mary laughed a great deal and the Earl and Countess were delighted at her pleasure. They were determined that by the time she left Arundel she was going to have changed her mind about this wish to join the Poor Clares.

She slept soundly that night and arose feeling fresh and full of vitality the next morning. She could not help being pleased that Eleanor had been unable to accompany them, for she was realising that Eleanor had a way of damping down her pleasure and implying that it was sinful for Mary to indulge in that of which she, Eleanor, could not have enough.

Her cousins showed her their horses and they crossed the drawbridge, ran down the incline and walked as far as the forest. How she had enjoyed standing under the trees and inhaling the scent of earth and pines. She loved the forest and longed to be there alone free of her cousins’ chatter. She felt she had so much to think about. They believed they had been very bold to cross the drawbridge but said Elizabeth: ‘It is all right because there are three of us.’

She felt much older than they were, though she was not really so; she supposed it was due to her upbringing with the nuns. It seemed that during the last days she had grown up suddenly; she was presented with a problem which could affect her whole life and she needed solitude to think of it. How she would love to wander alone among these beautiful trees and think of the future. She was thoughtful as they returned to the castle.

It was after dinner and the household was very quiet. Mary knew that her cousins were with their mother before she took her rest. An irresistible urge came over her to get out into the forest. She wanted to be absolutely alone and she could not feel that within the castle walls.

On impulse she put on her cloak and went to the drawbridge. It was down and there were no guards on duty. She crossed it and felt free. She ran down the incline and turned towards the fringe of the forest.

It was greatly daring. Her uncle and her aunt would be horrified if they knew she were out alone. I shall only venture into the edge, she promised herself, and shall keep the castle in sight. I must be alone to think.

The grass was green and springy under her feet. There had been much rain of late. How beautiful it was! There was a tang in the air which made her cheeks tingle but it was not really
cold for January. She liked the winter; she thought the trees raising their stark branches to the sky made a more intricate and delicate pattern than could be produced with needle on silk and the evergreen pines were as resplendent now as in the height of summer. She stood listening to the call of a skylark; she filled her lungs with the sharp fresh air and gratefully smelt the scent of grass and foliage. She looked up at the grey sky and the pale wintry sun and thought the world was a beautiful place. There was so much to discover and if one were shut away in the convent one would learn so little about it. She was deep in thought as she walked through the glades, pausing every now and then to look closer at the tassels of the hazels and to see whether the blossoms were beginning to show on the ancient yews, as she inhaled the fresh air.

She began to smile, suddenly thinking of the mummers she had seen last evening. How excited she had been when her uncle had led her in the dance! It had been a great honour; she wondered why he and the Countess had taken such pains to make her feel so important. She was, after all, only just past ten years old.

Her uncle had talked about her going to Court. That would be much later of course but he had made it sound exciting. Richard would be pleased to receive her he had said. How would she like that? It must always be a pleasure to be received by a king, she had replied.

It was so different here at Arundel from Pleshy. Was it because Eleanor always made her feel that she was destined for the convent and must never forget it for it would be sinful to turn her back on her destiny.

But was it her destiny? Since she had come to Arundel she was unsure.

She stood listening. She could hear the sound of horses’ hoofs. There must be arrivals at the castle. There was nothing unusual in that. Travellers were constantly calling. They came often to Pleshy. They were never turned away unless, of course, there was some reason for doing so.

The incident had reminded her where she was and what she was doing. She was disobeying rules which was not very good of her since she had been treated so affectionately by her aunt and uncle at the castle. Because they had behaved as though she were much older, with the honours they had bestowed on her, she had felt grown up. Perhaps it was for that reason that she had ventured into the forest.

She should return at once.

She started to walk back the way she thought she had come, but after she had gone some little distance and expected to emerge from the forest to see the castle before her, she did not do so.

The trees hedged her in and with dismay she realised that she was not sure of the direction in which she should go. It was nothing to be alarmed at. She had not really penetrated the forest; she had just skirted the edge. She must emerge from the trees and see the castle soon.

But alas, it was not so simple. She had been so deep in thought that she had not noted any landmark which might have helped her. All the trees looked alike. She paused uncertainly and tried to work out which way to go.

She must not panic. This was a situation she had never had to face before. It was the first time she had been away from her home alone. What had she been thinking of to come into the forest? The treatment given her by her relations had made her feel she was no longer a child.