The Star of Lancaster (8 page)

Now she was the Countess of Derby, and the imposing man who sat at the head of the table was her new father-in-law and there in the great hall of the Savoy Palace tables had been set up on their trestles, for all the nobility of the land must be present at the marriage of John of Gaunt’s son. Mary herself on the right hand of the great Duke with Henry beside her was at the high table. Her mother was there so were her new sisters-in-law Philippa and Elizabeth. Also present was a very beautiful woman whose presence caused a few titters among the guests. It was characteristic of the great Duke that he should insist that his mistress not only be present but be treated with all the deference which would normally be bestowed on his Duchess.

Henry pressed Mary’s hand and she smiled at him. It was comforting to believe that while he was at her side all would be well.

He selected the best parts of the food and fed them to her and happily she munched the delicate morsels, although she was not really hungry. But the guests revelled in the banquet, declared that they had rarely seen such large boars’ heads, such joints of beef and mutton, such pestles of pork, such sucking pigs which made the mouth water to behold. There was mallard, pheasant, chicken, teals, woodcocks, snipes, peacocks and partridges, as well as that delectable dish called the leche which was made of pounded raw pork, eggs, sugar, raisins and dates all mixed with
spices and put in a bladder to be boiled; and then there were those pastry concoctions which were known as raffyolys and flampoyntes. Everything that could have been thought of to make this a feast to outdo all feasts had been provided.

There would be a joust the next day but this one was given up to feasting and indoor merriment.

The mummers trooped into the hall in their masks, some of these so strange that they looked like spectral figures and sent shivers of horror down the backs of the spectators. They wore horned animals’ heads and those of goats and creatures who could never have existed outside the imagination of the mask maker. Some of them wore masks of beautiful women which sat oddly on their square masculine bodies. But they were calculated to bring laughter to the lips of all who beheld them and this they undoubtedly did although some might have been overawed.

It was wonderful to see them dance and play their scenes in mime. The company applauded with gusto and then the dancing began. Henry led out Mary and others fell in behind them. Lancaster danced with the beautiful Catherine Swynford; the company held its breath watching them and many thought – though they dared not give voice to such thoughts – that there was not a man in the kingdom now who would dare behave as John of Gaunt did. The old King had done it with his mistress Alice Perrers. It was a King’s privilege he would have said; but the people did not like him for it. In some way it was different with John of Gaunt. There was true love between those two and that being so obvious was something which must command respect wherever it was.

Then John of Gaunt took Mary’s hand and danced with her while Henry danced with Lady Swynford. Her new father told
Mary that he regarded this as one of the happiest days of his life. He wanted her to regard it as such also.

The torches guttered and the evening was passing. It was time for Henry to lead Mary away. His father restrained the people who would have attempted to carry out some of the old customs. ‘They are young and innocent,’ he said. ‘I would not harry them. Let nature take its course with them.’

In the great bedchamber which had been assigned to them, nature was taking its course.

Henry was advanced for his years. He was in love with his bride and because she was intelligent beyond her age it did not occur to him to consider that she might not be physically mature.

He was glad that there had been no ribald jokes; Mary would not have understood them and they might have alarmed her. As it was she was entirely his to teach as he could, he believed, so comfortably do.

Henry helped her remove the wedding garments, which jewel encrusted as they were were heavily uncomfortable, and it was a relief to be free of them.

She stood before him – a child in her simplicity. He himself took the loose nightgown and put it over her head.

Then he led her to the bridal bed; she lay down while he divested himself of his garments.

Then he joined her.

Gently with tender explanation he initiated her into the mysteries of procreation which for such as themselves, who had the continuance of great families to consider, was the primary function of marriage.

They set out for Kenilworth, for, as his father had said, Henry loved that best of all the Lancaster estates which would one day be his.

Mary was very happy journeying with Henry; he was kindly, loving and gentle and she had not believed there was so much contentment in the world. If she could but forget Eleanor she could be completely happy.

The sight of Kenilworth was breathtaking. They had travelled some way, for the castle was situated between Warwick and Coventry, being about five miles from each. It consisted of a magnificent structure of castellated buildings which owed their charm to the fact that they had been added to over the years, for Kenilworth had been nothing but a manor in the days of the first Henry who had bestowed it on one of his nobles and it was this noble who had begun the task of turning the manor into a castle. The keep was massive and was known as Caesar after that of the same name in the Tower of London. Kenilworth had the distinction of once belonging to Simon de Montfort and on his death it was bestowed by the King on his youngest son Edmund, Earl of Lancaster. Thus, like the Savoy, it had come to John of Gaunt through his marriage with Henry’s mother, Blanche of Lancaster.

Henry told Mary that his father, who had taken a great fancy to the place since it had been in his possession, had extended it even more than those who had owned it before, and to prove this Henry pointed out to her the magnificent extension which was known as the Lancaster Building.

Kenilworth was a fairy tale palace ideally suited to a pair of young people who were realising the joys of getting to know each other.

Mary would remember those days to the end of her life. She
was completely happy and it did not occur to her in the full flush of her happiness to question its transience. She did not look to the future; if she had she would have known that a man in Henry’s exalted position could not revel in the joys of newly married bliss in the castle of Kenilworth for ever.

They rode through the forest together – not hunting, for she had confessed to him that she hated to see animals killed and always hoped the deer and the boars would escape. Henry laughed at her but loved her more for her gentleness and he said that as she did not care for the hunt they would look for the signs of the spring and not for the spoor of animals.

She did not care for hawking either; she liked to watch the birds flying free. She would stand and admire Henry when he practised archery and happily applauded when he excelled those in competition with him. She thought how fine he looked when he shot at the target with his bow which was the same height as he was and his arrow was one full yard long. Their attendants played games with them. There was great hilarity over Ragman’s Roll which was the preliminary to a mime. One of them would bring out a parchment roll on which were written couplets describing certain characters; and attached to these verses were strings with seals at the end. Each player must take a seal and pull the string and then play the character whose description he had picked. There were shrieks of laughter when this game was played for it always seemed that people chose the characters least like themselves. When they tired of mimes they would play Hot Cockles in which one player was blindfolded and knelt with hands behind the back. The other players would strike those hands and the kneeling blindfolded player must guess who was the striker before being released. Mary much preferred the games of chess when she
and Henry would retire to a quiet corner and pit their wits one against the other, or when Henry suggested she should bring out her guitar and they sang and played together.

They were happy days indeed as the spring passed into summer but they could not go on for ever and one day a messenger from the Duke of Lancaster came riding to the castle with the command that Henry was to join his father.

It would only be for a short time, he told Mary. As soon as he could he would return or if that were not possible he would send for her to come to him.

She knew that she must accept this. She watched him ride away and desolation overcame her. She must try to be brave she knew. It was what happened to all wives. Their husbands could not stay with them for ever.

It was shortly after Henry’s departure that she knew she was to have a child.

She was delighted, although she overheard her women discussing the matter in private and she knew that they shook their heads and melancholy looks came into their eyes.

One of them said: ‘She’s too young I tell you. It’s not right for one so young.’

‘They say,’ said another, ‘that if a woman can conceive she’s ripe for child bearing.’

‘She’s little more than a baby herself. They should have waited.’

She did not want to hear more. Such talk frightened her.

There came a day when the Earl and Countess of Buckingham were passing Kenilworth. They stayed for a night, and that was very unpleasant.

Eleanor was cold; Thomas was hotly indignant.

‘By God’s ears,’ he said. ‘I’ll never like brother John again. He planned this, he did. He waited until I went away.’

‘It was not so,’ she cried.

‘Married!’ cried Eleanor. ‘At your age. It shocks me deeply.’

‘You were going to send me into a convent,’ retorted Mary. ‘I was old enough you considered to make up my mind about that.’

‘How could you have been so deceitful. The nuns are heartbroken.’

‘The Abbess was most concerned that I should be sure I was doing what was best.’

‘I wonder you are not ashamed,’ cried Eleanor. ‘To go off like that and the next thing we knew was that you were betrothed!’

‘It so happened that Henry was at Arundel . . .’

‘So happened!’ snapped Eleanor. ‘It was arranged. And why do you think it was arranged? Because you happened to be an heiress, that’s why. Do you think the high and mighty Duke of Lancaster and his romantic son would have been so eager to take you without your fortune?’

‘Is that why Thomas took you?’ retorted Mary.

‘You wicked girl! You give yourself airs. How dare you talk to me thus. Oh I am so disappointed. After all we did. We went to Pleshy because you were so interested in the convent there.’

Thomas shouted, ‘Stop bickering. The evil is done. Would to God I had not been out of the country at the time. I would have taken up arms against Lancaster. I would . . .’

He spluttered on in his rage. It was all so ridiculous, thought Mary. He would not have dared to take up arms against his brother over such a matter. But perhaps he would. He was
known throughout the country as a man who acted on impulse however foolishly.

She was glad when they departed. It was very upsetting.