Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 07]

by The Queen's Secret

  “Does that mean you will soon be leaving England again?”

  “Nay,” he cried. “I would not want you to travel. I shall stay in England until my son is born.”

  I was happy. I was going to forget all my misgivings. Henry loved me and I loved him. I would not ask myself so many questions. I would stop wondering how deep his affection for me went. I must learn one of the great lessons of life which was that people were as they were, and to attempt to change them could prove fatal to any relationship.

  So a few weeks passed. We were in June, and June is a beautiful month. My baby was due in December. It was a long time to wait, but I looked forward to the waiting months because Henry would be with me.

  He was looking forward with great excitement to the birth. What if the child should prove to be a girl? But even if it were, we should love it, and the fact that I had become pregnant so quickly augured well. I knew that Henry was looking to a happy future when his family would be as numerous as that in which he had grown up…or perhaps he visualized more children, as everything Henry did must be better than others.

  I might have known that such happiness could not last.

  I remember the day well—a hot June day. I had awakened to a feeling of intense happiness. I was feeling very well, no longer experiencing those early inconveniences which sometimes are the lot of pregnant women. The days were full of contentment. I was growing fonder of Henry, and our love for each other was a great joy; we played our harps together as we lived, in harmony.

  Thoughts of the coming child absorbed us both. We talked of the event continuously.

  It was in the early afternoon when messengers came riding to Westminster. I knew from their demeanor that something terrible had happened. I was with Henry when he received them. There were two of them and they both knelt before the King; I could see that they were desperately afraid to give him the news.

  “It was at Beaugé,” they said.

  “Yes, yes,” cried Henry impatiently. “Tell me the worst. Our forces have been defeated?”

  The men were silent for a few seconds. Henry roared out: “Speak! For the love of God, tell me!”

  “It is the Duke, my lord…the Duke of Clarence.”

  “They have taken him …”

  That terrible silence again and then: “He was slain, Sire.”

  I watched the emotion in Henry’s face. This was his brother…his best-loved brother. Slain! I thought of Margaret…a widow once more. Oh, the tragedy of war! Why did men have to make it? How much happier we should all be without it!

  Henry began questioning the men. They stammered out what had happened.

  I could not bear to see the misery on Henry’s face. He loved all his brothers, but Clarence was the one closest to him. It was more than that. I knew that he was thinking that the line of victories had been broken. This was defeat. The French had beaten the English. And the reason? Because he was not there.

  I knew him well enough to read his thoughts. He had indulged himself; he had given way to a desire for family life. He had been spending time with his wife, contemplating the birth of his child, and consequently the French had beaten the English, and his beloved brother had been killed.

  The messengers feared the wrath which was sometimes the reward of bringing bad news; but Henry was too sensible for that. His grief was intense but it was under control.

  He fired questions at them. He wanted to know all that had happened.

  It was something like this: when we had come to England, Bedford accompanying us, Henry had left Clarence behind as Captain of Normandy and Lieutenant of France. Clarence had carried on with Henry’s advance and had reached Beaufort-en-Vallée. My brother Charles, the Dauphin, had signed no contracts with Henry. I could imagine his wrath when he heard that our mother and father had given away his birthright and I had become Henry’s queen. Naturally there would be many who would deplore the surrender of France and would rally around him. Moreover, the Scots were the perennial enemies of the English, and there were many in France who had gone there to support the French.

  I understood the attitude of Henry’s brothers toward him. They recognized his brilliance and all regarded him with a certain awe and sought to emulate him. Bedford was the only one who realized that, efficient as he might be, he did not, nor ever could, compare his skills with the military genius of Henry. Clarence believed that he could equal it; Gloucester, I was to discover, was deluded enough to think he could excel it.

  I guessed that what Clarence wanted was to present Henry with as great a victory as Agincourt—with himself, Clarence, as the hero of the day.

  When he heard that the Dauphin was marching on Beaugé with a strong force, he was impatient to go into battle. His main army was not at hand and could not join up with him for a day or so; but he was eager for glory, and with a very small force he rode in to the attack. It was brave but it was folly.

  I watched Henry half close his eyes and grind his teeth as he listened.

  Clarence’s little band of knights were quickly overcome and in the fighting which ensued Clarence was slain.

  Henry stood numb. I guessed what emotion he was suffering. Grief at the loss of a beloved brother and there would be the realization that the aura of invincibility, which he had built up and which he believed was one of the elements of victory, had been tarnished.

  Oh, foolish Clarence! Henry would never have acted so. He would have waited. He would have taken no risks. Great planners only took risks when it was necessary to do so. Henry would never have been so foolish as to attack without the means to win. But others were not Henry.

  “My lord,” went on the messengers. “The Earl of Salisbury recovered the bodies of those who were slain. They are sending the Duke’s body back to England.”

  Henry nodded. He stood silent for a few moments; then he dismissed the men. They needed refreshment and rest; they had ridden far and fast.

  They were relieved to go.

  I looked at Henry and I knew that the peaceful days were over. He was shedding the role of lover, husband and prospective father. These were forgotten in that of the conquering king.

  “I must leave for France,” he said, “as quickly as possible.”

  I had known it would happen. The next days were spent in feverish preparation. I scarcely saw him and wondered when I should again.

  The day came for his departure. He expressed regret at leaving me, but I knew that his heart was in France.

  On the last night we spent together he spoke about the child.

  “Perhaps you will be back by December,” I said. “You should be here when he is born.”

  “I shall do my utmost to be here, but who can say? I did not plan to leave England until after he was born.” Then he became very solemn. “The boy must not be born at Windsor,” he said.

  Not at Windsor! Indeed, I had thought that my confinement should take place there. It was the place I loved best of all the castles and palaces of England. I had promised myself that I would go there and await the birth of my child. And now he was saying it must not be Windsor.

  “No,” he repeated, “I do not want him to be born in Windsor.”

  “I cannot think why you should say that. It is the most beautiful place I know. I felt happy there…at peace with myself and the world.”

  “Windsor is a fine castle…yes. The park and the forest are indeed majestic. But there are other places. And remember this, Kate: I do not wish my son to be born at Windsor. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Then, sweetheart, that is settled.”

  That night, as I lay beside him, I was thinking, when shall I see him again? By that time I shall surely have my son…or perhaps a daughter. That was the one thing of which I felt certain.

  And the next day he was gone.

  After he left I went to Windsor. A mood of serenity had settled upon me. There was a certain relief in not having to ask myself when the summons would come to take him away. He
was gone and there was no point in thinking about it any more. I knew some months would pass before he returned. Moreover, there was the baby to think of.

  In six months’ time the child would be born, and as the days passed I could forget everything but that wondrous fact.

  Guillemote was in her element. She loved babies and was looking forward to mine with as much excitement as I was myself.

  Since I had come to England I had grown very fond of four of my English attendants. They were Agnes and the three Joannas. We often laughed about their having the same name. They were Joanna Courcy, Joanna Belknap and Joanna Troutbeck. With these friends around me, I could not feel that I was in an alien land.

  I knew we should all be happy at Windsor. Each day when I awoke I would remind myself that I was a day nearer to the great occasion which was to take place in December. My own child! That was what I wanted more than anything on earth.

  We talked about the child continually. Guillemote was making tiny garments. She remembered me, she said, when I was little more than a baby.

  “I watched you grow,” she said, shaking her head and thinking back, I knew, to those days in the Hôtel de St.-Paul. We should never cast off the memory of those days—any of us who had lived through them. Guillemote could only have been a young girl when she came, but they would live in her memory forever.

  It was about three weeks after Henry had left that Jacqueline of Bavaria arrived and the peace of Windsor was broken; one cannot say that it was shattered exactly, but it was ruffled.

  Jacqueline was a disturbing person; moreover, she was filled with resentment against life.

  I remembered her slightly from the old days when I had seen her once or twice, for she had been my sister-in-law, having been married briefly to my brother Jean.

  She had gone back to her birthplace, Bavaria, when Jean had died, for she was the daughter of the Count of Hainault, Holland and Zealand and Margaret of Burgundy, sister of Jean the Fearless, the murdered Duke.

  When her father died, she had inherited all his lands and had married the Duke of Brabant, who was her cousin and also a cousin of Philip, Duke of Burgundy. However, her uncle, at one time Bishop of Liège and known as John the Pitiless, had usurped her possessions, having tricked her second husband, the weak Duke of Brabant, into signing them away.

  As a result she was in exile and had been given refuge in England, where she was treated with great respect. This might have been partly due to her connection with me, for I suppose the Queen’s former sister-in-law could not have been denied a haven.

  I said to Guillemote: “We must be patient with her. We must let her talk of her wrongs. It helps her. She has suffered so much. Imagine being an exile…and robbed of one’s inheritance. She is just about three months older than I.”

  “She looks years older,” said Guillemote.

  “She certainly looks experienced,” added Joanna Courcy.

  “One would expect her to be after having had two husbands,” said Agnes.

  “I remember her…just a little,” I told them. “She came to France when she was married to my brother Jean. He was Dauphin for a while.”

  “She reckoned she would be Queen of France,” said Guillemote.

  “Well, she might have been…had he lived. But he died, as my brother Louis had before him.”

  “Two Dauphins…to die,” said Joanna Belknap. “How very sad…and strange.”

  There was silence. I knew what they were thinking. I had thought it myself many times. It was suspicious…and my mother had liked neither of them. But did she like my brother Charles any more? For a few moments I was back in that unhappy past; my mother exerting her power over us all; my father shut away in darkness. Michelle was happy, I believed, with Burgundy, but how did it feel to live with the fact that her brother had been in the plot which had resulted in the death of her husband’s father? Marie was the only one who had found peace, in her convent. Charles…poor little baby brother…had lost his throne and was now trying to regain it. The Duke of Clarence had died because of that.

  But I had escaped. I was the fortunate one. Here I was, happy at Windsor…awaiting the greatest event of my life. I must forget the past. I was beginning to. It was only now and then, on occasions like this, that it was brought back vividly to me.

  Jacqueline was often in my company. I supposed she thought that, in view of the family connection between us, I should have her with me. She talked on and on about her grievances and I would feign to listen sympathetically while my thoughts were elsewhere. Would the child be a girl after all? I wondered. A little girl would be delightful, but of course it must be a boy. Henry wanted a boy. The country wanted a boy. The bells would peal out and everything that had gone before would be worthwhile because of this child.

  Jacqueline was saying: “Of course, what they all wanted was Hainault, Holland, Zealand and Friesland. They were mine. That is why they were so eager to have me.”

  I looked at her. She was quite comely; but there was something mildly repellant about her. It is due to what she has suffered, I told myself.

  “They were ambitious for me,” she went on. “Both my mother and my father. It was a great blow to my father that I was not a boy. How highly men rate their own sex.”

  I agreed. “It is because men lead other men into battle,” I said. “People always want war…or conquests. I do not think they like it overmuch when it goes against them. But for war, Henry would be here now. We had to marry to make a harmonious union between our two countries. But for war my father could have remained King and Charles would have followed him peacefully. But they had to make war, and what men would want a woman to lead them? When you come to think of it, what woman would want to lead them? That is why they always want boys.”

  “If Jean had lived …”

  “What if Jean had lived? Do you think Jean would have been able to stand out against Henry? Jean, less than any, wanted the crown.”

  “They would not let me remain a widow for long,” she was saying.

  “And you were not happy with your second marriage?” I asked perfunctorily, because I knew the answer already.

  “How dared they marry me to such a weakling!”

  “Well, he is your own cousin and therefore cousin to Philip of Burgundy.”

  “He is a fool. He allowed my wicked uncle to rob us of our estates.”

  “Money! Power! It seems there is always conflict where they exist. Oh, Jacqueline, do you not wish sometimes that we had not been born into families such as ours?”

  She looked at me in astonishment. “No! No!” she cried. “I would not have it otherwise. We are the ruling class. We have the power.”

  “Until we lose it. Look what has happened to you! What has happened to my family!”

  “That was war. And all is well with you now. You have made your way to the winning side. All would have been well with me if they had not forced me into marriage with Brabant…and if my wicked uncle had not seen how he could cheat the fool and rob me of my rights.”

  I knew so well by now the story of Jacqueline’s second marriage to the Duke of Brabant who had foolishly allowed himself to be tricked by her scheming uncle, who had made a treaty with the Duke that all the property left by his late brother to his daughter should pass to him.

  “Brabant should have fought for my rights,” she cried in anguish. “Our marriage will be annulled. Yes, I shall be free of the fool. But look at me! What have I now? I…who was once the greatest heiress in Europe?”

  I sympathized. We did what we could to help her, but her continual ranting about her wrongs wearied us.

  “One day,” she said, “there will be someone who will help me regain what was stolen from me.”

  “I hope so, Jacqueline,” I replied.

  I did indeed. Then she would go back to her own country and leave us in peace.

  Meanwhile I continued to plan for the baby.

  The time was passing…July, August, September.

 
I watched the leaves turning to bronze. Time was passing and Henry showed no sign of coming home.

  I thought, a little resentfully, that he should have been here for the birth of our child.

  I left Windsor and went to Westminster. October came.

  I said to Guillemote: “I long to be at Windsor.”

  She replied: “Well, you could go there and return to Westminster for the birth. There is time.”

  So we went to Windsor.

  Jacqueline stayed at Westminster. She had been given a comfortable pension by the state which had mollified her a little. I was glad of that.

  I wanted to spend my time peacefully waiting…in the company of my dear Guillemote and my faithful ladies.

  November had come.

  Guillemote said: “If the child is not to be born at Windsor, we should begin to think of leaving. You will not want to travel in a week or so.”

  “Guillemote,” I replied, “I do not want to travel now.”

  “I thought the King expressly said that the child must not be born at Windsor.”

  “How could he get such a fancy, Guillemote? Henry…the practical soldier…to have such a whim. I love this place. I don’t feel so happy anywhere else. It is pleasant not to have Jacqueline always with me. It is so delightful here. I feel safe and secure. Just a few more days, Guillemote.”

  “A few more days,” echoed Guillemote. “But no more.”

  But when those days had passed I still felt reluctant to leave.

  “They say a pregnant woman’s whims should be satisfied,” I reminded Guillemote.

  “How shall we move later on? You will not be fit for it.”

  “No, Guillemote. I shall not be.”

  I do not know why I did what I did. It was like some compulsion. Each day I put off the departure. I thought he could not really have meant it. It was such a fanciful notion and Henry was not a man of fancies. It was just said on the spur of the moment. And I did not want to leave Windsor, where I was so happy.

  I was still at Windsor when December came. The weather had turned cold. Bleak winds swept through the park and the forest and there were flurries of snow in the air.