Passage to Pontefract

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘Consider the position,’ said John. ‘Our father has aged considerably since our mother’s death.’

  ‘He is a changed man,’ agreed Edmund. ‘I wish he would carry on his business with Alice Perrers in a more private manner. He positively flaunts his relationship with the woman and it is not as if she is a high-born lady.’

  ‘The flaunting is part of the price she demands for her favour. She wants the whole of England to know that she is his leman. They say that men of rank are afraid to offend her. But it was not of her I wished to speak. Our father cannot live long. And what think you of our brother’s chance of returning to health?’

  ‘By God’s teeth, brother, what do you suggest?’

  ‘I pray to Him that it will not be so. But if our father dies and Edward were to follow him, this child, his eldest son, would be our King. A boy, nothing more …’

  ‘You are thinking of a Regency.’

  ‘It might come to that.’ John looked searchingly at Edmund. ‘We should have to stand together to protect our brother’s son.’

  ‘He would be our rightful King and we could do no other.’

  ‘We must stand together. But I pray God that it may never come to pass.’

  Edmund avoided meeting his brother’s eyes. A thought flashed into his mind. It was: ‘You mean you pray God that it might.’

  He dismissed it at once. That was unfair. They were a united family. They had been brought up in affection by loving parents. They had always been taught that they must stand together. The family was supreme and if one was in need all the others must go to that one’s aid.

  No, he was misjudging his brother and he was ashamed of himself.

  But they had always known that the most ambitious member of the family was John of Gaunt.

  At the Court of the Black Prince there were two young ladies. They were very interested to meet the new arrivals.

  They were beautiful in the exotic way of Spanish ladies – quite different from the pale noble beauty of Blanche or that overwhelming sensual beauty of Catherine Swynford which John even now had been unable to forget.

  They were interesting of course because they were the daughters of Pedro.

  Constanza was the elder of the two girls. She was a determined young woman and it was clear that she was trying to find some champion who would restore the throne of Castile to her for she considered she was the rightful heir.

  John listened attentively to her. Edmund, too, was drawn into their conferences. He was rather attracted by Constanza’s younger sister, Isabella, but of course he could not enter into a light love affair with a girl of such position, so he gave himself up to a little harmless dalliance while John discussed the state of affairs with the elder sister.

  ‘I would gladly marry the man who would win my throne for me,’ said Constanza.

  John watched her thoughtfully. Yes, she was right. She had a claim. There had been an elder sister Beatrice who had gone into a convent and had died there, so that Constanza, now the eldest child of Pedro the Cruel, could claim the throne if she could oust the usurper.

  He wondered whether she would find someone to help her. Some ambitious man might, for the sake of the title of King, he supposed. It would be a good gamble, and a throne was an ever enticing goal.

  While he talked with her the children came riding in – sturdy Edward, delicate Richard and with them their two half-brothers, those noisy Holland young men, the result of Joan’s misalliance with Sir Thomas Holland. The elder Holland must be about twenty years old, the other two years younger; but there was no doubt that the little boys looked up to their brothers and the Hollands made the most of it.

  John’s eyes rested on young Edward. A King to be, and another Edward. That seemed to be a name the people loved. Whereas John … They should never have named him John because people still remembered that wicked ancestor of his, the King John who had made the signing of Magna Carta necessary.

  He turned away from the window. He was beginning to think that he would never wear a crown.

  A few days later, news came from England. He could not believe it. Blanche dead … of plague at Bolingbroke, that castle which they had both loved so much since it was the birthplace of their son.

  He was stunned. He thought of her gentleness, her nobility. He was bowed down with grief.

  He must leave at once for England. Edward would understand that he must go.

  That the plague should have struck her down! All that beauty made loathsome by the fearful enemy which stalked the towns and villages of the world in search of victims. Blanche … not beautiful, noble Blanche!

  Downstairs he could hear the sounds of music. The musicians were practising for the evening. Joan was anxious to fill the castle with rejoicing because she was sure that the Black Prince was recovering from his sickness.

  Constanza and Isabella would be there.

  Constanza who wanted a husband to help her gain the throne of Castile.

  That husband would be King of Castile.

  Blanche had been buried near the High Altar in St Paul’s, and John had ordered that a magnificent alabaster tomb be erected on which was an effigy of his wife.

  He was overwhelmed by his sadness. He had loved her dearly, and he was ashamed of the fact that there were two women who would come into his mind even while he mourned for her. One was Constanza, the heiress of Castile, the other was Catherine Swynford, the wife of his squire Sir Hugh who was with one of the armies in France. One promised a crown, the other such sensual delight as he felt he had never known yet.

  But nevertheless he mourned for Blanche. He knew that there would never be one who loved him so devotedly, so selflessly, as Blanche had. Blanche would always be enshrined in his heart – the most beautiful of ladies, the most perfect of wives, the mother of his children, his beloved daughters and the one he loved above all others because in him was enshrined his ambition – Henry of Bolingbroke.

  Geoffrey Chaucer had presented himself to him. He was deeply affected. Once John had laughed at Chaucer’s devotion to Blanche. He had teased her saying that the little poet loved her and it was well that his devotion was of the soul and not of the body otherwise he would have been jealous and have cut off the head of the presumptuous fellow.

  As it was he had been amused and liked the poet for it.

  He received him with friendliness and was touched when Chaucer produced what he called his Book of the Duchess.

  John read it with emotion. It extolled the beauty and virtue of Blanche, setting it down in such a way that would immortalise her. It told of his own love for the incomparable Blanche.

  He was deeply moved to read those words:

  ‘My lady bright

  Which I have loved with all my might

  Is from me dead.’

  Those simple words, which Chaucer in his poet’s sensitivity had attributed to him, putting himself in his place no doubt, writing what he would have felt had he been John of Gaunt, conveyed so much more than flowery speech could have done. Chaucer had gone on:

  ‘Alas, of death, what aileth thee

  That thou wouldst not have taken me

  When that thou took my lady sweet

  That was so fair, so fresh, so free

  So good that men may well it see

  Of all goodness she had no mete.’

  He would not forget Chaucer, nor his wife … nor his sister-in-law.

  He must go to the children. Poor motherless ones. They would be bowed down with sorrow.

  It was his duty to go to them.

  They were installed in the Palace of the Savoy in the care of their governess, and it was with strange emotions that he made his way there. He was wondering how he would find his children; they were over young perhaps to realise what this meant. Their governess would have talked to them.

  Their governess! He was not really thinking of his children, he found, but of their governess.

  He sent for them and waited for their arrival, his heart beatin
g fast. He wondered what she would look like now. Perhaps she had grown over fat; some of these women did when they came to the palace. Perhaps he had endowed her, in his imaginings, with qualities she did not possess. She had become a kind of dream woman, a fantasy possessed of charms beyond all human knowledge.

  The door had opened. Philippa came in. She ran to him and threw herself into his arms.

  ‘My child, my child,’ he said overcome with emotion.

  Then there was Elizabeth. His younger daughter was six years old now, old enough to mourn.

  ‘She went to Bolingbroke and we were to join her there. We never saw her again.’ Philippa was looking at him sternly as though there was some explanation that he could give.

  ‘Alas of death what aileth thee …’ he thought. Why take Blanche … dear good Blanche, who had never harmed anyone and who was so sadly missed?

  ‘And where is your brother?’

  ‘Catherine told us to come first. She will bring him when you have seen us. He is only three you know.’

  As if he needed to be reminded!

  ‘Does the boy miss his mother?’

  ‘Not as we do. He forgets sometimes that she is dead. He says he will show her something and that makes us cry and then he says “Oh, she is dead. I forgot.” He does not know what it means. He thinks she has gone away for a while … like going to Kenilworth … or Windsor or somewhere like that.’

  ‘And you, my darling daughters, you know what this sadness means?’

  ‘It means she will never come back again,’ said Philippa seriously.

  ‘It is fate, my daughters. It is life. It is something we must accept. It happens to us all … in time.’

  Elizabeth looked alarmed. ‘You are not going to die too?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no, no, my daughter. Not for years I think.’

  ‘If you did,’ said Elizabeth, ‘we should be real orphans! Who would look after us then? The Queen couldn’t. She is dead too.’

  ‘I know,’ said Philippa. ‘We would go and live with our cousins in France. Henry is the same age as Cousin Richard.’

  ‘My children, my children, I am not going to die. There is no need to wonder what will become of you for I am here and while I am you will always be my concern. Ah … here is my son.’

  They had come into the room. He was holding her hand. John scarcely saw the boy. He could see nothing but her.

  No. He had not exaggerated. It was there … the voluptuous overwhelming attractiveness … just as he had imagined it.

  She curtsied to him. Henry made a little bow … obviously taught by her.

  ‘Rise, Lady Swynford,’ he heard himself say. ‘I see you have taken good care of my children. Henry …’

  Henry ran forward and threw himself at his father’s knees.

  He lifted him up. The boy glowed with health. ‘That was a fine bow you gave me,’ said John.

  ‘Catherine said I must,’ replied Henry.

  ‘Catherine did …’ He repeated her name. He glanced at her. She smiled and again that understanding passed between them.

  ‘Lord Henry grows apace, my lord,’ she said. ‘You will be delighted with his progress.’

  ‘I’m getting bigger every day,’ boasted Henry. ‘I shall soon be bigger than you … bigger than the King. Bigger than everybody.’

  ‘I see you have given my son a fine opinion of himself,’ he said.

  She answered: ‘My lord, I believe he was born with that and it was his birth that gave it to him, not I.’

  He put the boy down. ‘I am well pleased with your care of the children, Lady Swynford.’

  ‘Then I am happy,’ she answered softly.

  He asked her questions as to their progress. Philippa and Elizabeth kept butting in with the answers; but he was not really listening. He was thinking of her all the time and the dreams he had had of her. She had never been so alluring, so exciting in those dreams as she was in reality.

  She took the children away and he stood looking out of the window on to the river at the craft that was plying its way from Westminster to the Tower.

  Then he made his way to his bedchamber. There he said to one of his pages: ‘I wish to speak again with Lady Swynford. There is much I have to say to her regarding the care of my children.’

  It was the first time he had ever thought it necessary to explain his motives to a servant.

  She scratched at the door and he called: ‘Enter.’

  He was looking out of the window and he did not turn. He found that he was trembling with excitement.

  She was standing close behind him. ‘You wished to see me, my lord?’

  He swung round and looked at her. He thought: She knows. She is as much aware of this as I. She longs for me as I do for her.

  He hesitated. ‘I … have thought a great deal about you, Lady Swynford.’

  She did not express surprise. She merely said quietly: ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘I wonder … if you had thought of me.’

  ‘The father of my charges …’

  He took her by the shoulders suddenly. ‘I think,’ he said quietly, ‘you understand.’

  She held back her head. He saw the long white throat. He had never seen such white skin. He looked at her ripe lips and then suddenly he had seized her. He heard her laugh softly and there was complete harmony between them.

  They lay on his bed. They both seemed bewildered by what had happened and yet each was aware of its inevitability.

  He took a lock of her thick reddish hair and twisted it about his fingers. ‘I have thought of you ever since I first saw you,’ he told her. ‘What did you do to me on that first occasion?’

  ‘I did nothing,’ she answered. ‘I merely was myself and you were yourself … and that was enough for us both.’

  ‘I have never felt thus before …’

  ‘Nor I.’

  ‘There has never been such perfect union … We were as one, Catherine. Did you sense that?’

  ‘Yes, yes, my lord. I knew it would be so.’

  He held her close to him. In that moment of bliss he thought: We must always be together. I would marry her … The thought came quickly: She is the wife of Hugh Swynford … and with it relief. The son of the King could not marry a governess!

  He thrust such thoughts from his mind and dwelt on her perfection. Her sensual beauty, that perfect body which responded unfailingly to his own; her soft musical voice; her complete abandonment to the act of love. She was a rare woman. She was his from the moment he had set eyes on her.

  She told him now that she must go. She would be missed. She was right of course. What had happened had been so sudden and so overwhelming and for those moments neither of them had thought of anything but the slaking of their passion. There would be prying eyes in the castle. She was a woman with a husband overseas; he was a man who was mourning the death of his wife.

  ‘Alas of death, what aileth thee

  That thou would not have taken me …’

  Those were the words Chaucer had put into his mouth, and when he had read them he had felt deeply moved; and yet here he was, with Blanche so recently dead, sporting in the very bed which he had shared with her.

  But this was Catherine. There was no one like Catherine. He had never experienced anything like this emotion she aroused in him, this heady intoxication which made him oblivious of everything else but his need of her.

  ‘Tonight,’ he said.

  ‘I shall come to you,’ she promised.

  He had to be satisfied with that and reluctantly he let her slip out of his arms.

  When she had gone he lay for a long time thinking of her.

  He was all impatience for the night.

  They lay beside each other, limp, exhausted by the force of their passion.

  He knew so little of her except that she was the most desirable woman in the world. She knew much more about him, naturally. He had wondered about Hugh Swynford and she told him that the marriage had been arranged for her and sh
e had been a reluctant bride. Everyone had told her that she was fortunate to find a titled land-owning husband; she had felt herself less fortunate.

  ‘He’s an uncouth fellow,’ muttered John. ‘A good soldier but I shudder to think of you together.’

  ‘As I do.’

  ‘And there have been others?’

  ‘No. I left my convent and almost immediately was married. I am not a woman to break my vows … easily.’

  He believed her.

  ‘I would you had never married Swynford,’ he said. ‘I would you had come to me straight from your convent.’

  She was silent.

  There was a certain pride in her, he knew. She was the daughter of a Flemish knight even though his knighthood had been bestowed on the battlefield and he had died soon after receiving it. Her mother had been a sturdy country woman of Picardy who had brought up her children in a fitting manner; and when Catherine had become an orphan she had received some education at the hands of the nuns of Sheppey.

  He wished that she was unmarried; that she was some princess who would be considered a reasonable wife for him. Yes, his feelings were so strong that he could think of marriage. He had never seen Marie again, though he had made sure that she and their daughter were well cared for. In spite of his ambitions he was a man who was capable of love. He had loved Marie; he had revered Blanche; he had thought himself fortunate to possess such a bride. Yet this feeling he had for Catherine Swynford was entirely different. It was wild, passionate, sensuous in the extreme and yet he knew that tender love was stirring in him too.

  If she had been some great heiress … Constanza of Castile for instance … what joy that would be.

  But she was not. She was merely the wife of that uncouth squire, Hugh Swynford. If she had not been … what temptation she would have put in his way.