Passage to Pontefract

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘Then if we must discuss these matters vital to our country’s survival thus, I will send for John, for he should partake in our discussions.’

  ‘Yes, do send for John,’ said the King.

  ‘I hope he is enjoying his marriage,’ put in Alice rather maliciously. ‘Our King of Castile should be rather pleased with himself. There are rumours …’

  The Prince gave an abrupt bow to the King and walked out of the chamber. If his father forgot the required etiquette so would he. He would not stand and listen to that low-born creature discuss his brother.

  He rode to London and made his way to the Savoy Palace where he knew he would find John.

  John was surprised to see him and declared that he was delighted that his health had obviously improved.

  ‘It is useless to attempt to talk to the King with that woman beside him,’ said the Prince impatiently. ‘I would not have believed this possible if I had not seen it with my own eyes.’

  ‘She seems to do what she will with him.’

  ‘The country will be ruined if this goes on. That marriage of yours was not very clever.’

  ‘I begin to see it now.’

  ‘What do you suppose the French will do? Make an alliance with Henry of Trastamare obviously. That is clear. You have no chance of winning Castile.’

  ‘I can see it will be a difficult task.’

  ‘And you will not achieve it by staying here in England.’

  John’s heart sank. He had been foolish. There was no need to have married Constanza. He had allowed himself to believe that there would have been a quick conquest. He might have known that Henry of Trastamare would not be so easily disposed of; and clearly the French would take advantage of the situation. More fighting. More leaving Catherine.

  He had been seduced by the glitter of a crown.

  The Prince went on: ‘If I but had my strength again! I should never have left Aquitaine. If I had stayed …’

  He paused in frustration.

  ‘What is done is done,’ said John. ‘Let us go on from there.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ replied the Prince. ‘We must make plans to send out a fleet to Rochelle without delay.’

  The Prince’s health seemed to improve as he busied himself with the urgent work of preparing a fleet to sail to France.

  He did not intend to go with it. Joan was determined to stop him and with his health in such a precarious state he had to agree that he might be a liability rather than of use.

  The Earl of Pembroke should lead the fleet and they would set out as soon as weather permitted for Rochelle. In the meantime the Prince would gather together more men and arms ready to support the landing when it had taken place.

  Pembroke set out in June. A few weeks later the disastrous news reached England that the fleet had been intercepted by the Spaniards, and scarcely a ship had been able to limp back to England. So many lives lost, so much treasure squandered!

  The Black Prince was in despair. He went to the King and cried: ‘God has deserted us and I am not surprised.’

  The King did rouse himself a little, and took his mind from the new jewels he was having made for Alice to think of the implication of this defeat.

  ‘Would you lose everything we possess in France while you dally with your leman?’ shouted the Prince. ‘I tell you this, my lord, if you persist in your indifference to your crown there will soon be nothing to give your mistress.’

  ‘You should remember that you speak to your King,’ retorted the King.

  ‘I remember I speak to my father who was once a great King,’ answered the Black Prince.

  The King was shaken. It was true. He thought briefly of the glorious days. This son of his, of whom he had always been so proud and still was, was right of course. There must be a return to the old days of greatness. They were losing France and the Prince was hinting that if they continued thus they could lose England.

  He roused himself. Alice’s jewels would have to wait. He would explain to her. She would not want him to lose his crown. He must tell her to try not to anger the Black Prince. She must be reminded that he would be the next King of England.

  ‘You are right, Edward,’ said the King. ‘We must act promptly. We must muster another fleet. We have to reach Rochelle.’

  The Prince clasped his father’s hand.

  ‘If you can be as you once were, my lord,’ he said, ‘and if I can but keep my health, none will dare come against us.’

  A few days later news came that the French had overrun Poitou and Saintogne.

  The Black Prince had renewed his energies. He was urging on his father and brothers the need for immediate action. The King himself was aware of the danger and it seemed as though he was returning to his old vigour. Even Alice Perrers could not divert him from the purpose in hand.

  But as the preparations went on the Black Prince’s health began to fail again. Joan urged him to take to his bed but he would not listen to her.

  ‘No, Joan,’ he insisted, ‘this matter is of the utmost urgency. The crown of England itself is in jeopardy. I have to hold it … for Richard.’

  Joan knew that it was useless to protest. Frantic with anxiety she watched her husband leave.

  ‘I shall soon be back again.’

  He did come back, sooner than she had expected. The weather was so bad that it was impossible for the ships to land on French soil; and while they were attempting to, the town of Rochelle surrendered. That of Thouars waited in vain for relief but when it failed to come the city gates were thrown open and French invaders moved in.

  It was a disastrous defeat. The fleet returned to England having achieved nothing.

  The Black Prince was in no state to continue making war. John had been right. He should never have attempted to go. His presence had made no difference because the fleet had been unable to land. All that had happened was that the fever had returned and after every bout he was a little weaker.

  Gloom settled over the Court and the country. Alice only could arouse the King from his lethargy. He seemed to be telling himself that he must lose all that he had fought so hard to gain, that God did not favour his claim and had sent Alice to divert him from war and spend his energies in other directions. The Black Prince raged and fumed but he could only do it from a sick bed.

  John of Gaunt realised that efforts would have to be made to hold the French possessions and that it would be his lot to try to save them.

  Constanza had become pregnant and was pleased about this. She was aware that he had a mistress in the household and that she was the governess to his children by Blanche of Lancaster, but was not really grieved by the discovery, although some of her women thought she should be and should dismiss the brazen red-haired creature. Constanza shrugged her shoulders. She had not married John of Gaunt for love. He had seemed to her the means of winning back for her the throne to which she believed she had a right, and she still did not give up hope of doing so. If he would fight for her crown – and he would if the opportunity arose because it would be his crown too – she would be satisfied.

  They had made a show of living together; this child she was to bear was proof of that. She did not object to his having a mistress and Catherine Swynford was a very different kind of woman from Alice Perrers. Catherine had been well brought up in a convent; she had some education; she never attempted to exploit her position. No, Constanza did not greatly object to Catherine Swynford.

  It was good to have children, thought John, and he was glad that Constanza was pregnant. His marriage could have been far more inconvenient, and there was always the chance of winning the crown of Castile.

  Now of course he would have to return to France as the Black Prince could not go. Nor could the King. So the task would fall to John. He would have to cross those turbulent waters which had proved so recently to be on the side of the enemy. He would have to hold what was left, but for whom … for the King, for the Black Prince, for young Richard?

  He did not want to
leave England. He hated leaving Catherine for the more they were together, the greater was his need of her.

  Then news came to him that among those who had been wounded in the force which had been left to stand against the French was Hugh Swynford. He would tell her the news when she came to his bedchamber. She came to him openly now, for it was impossible to keep their relationship a secret. However much they had tried there were certain to be some who noticed it; and it seemed to them both that it was better to be an open fact than a clandestine one to be whispered about and giggled over in corners.

  They both told each other that they were neither of them ashamed. So it was common knowledge throughout the Court that Catherine Swynford was the mistress of John of Gaunt.

  Well, the King was sporting with Alice Perrers, but the Black Prince upheld the honour of the family. He was the faithful husband, the hero of the people and he had a son to follow him. Now and then the people had a glimpse of the fair-haired boy who was growing up to be tall and handsome; and when they did they cheered him wildly.

  Everything would be all right, said the people, while the Black Prince was with them.

  When Catherine was alone with him John immediately told her of the news about Hugh.

  ‘He is lying sick and in need of nursing close to Bordeaux.’

  ‘Poor Hugh,’ she said. ‘He will be most unhappy. He is not the sort of man who is blessed with patience. He cannot occupy himself unless it is with horses and fighting.’

  ‘He is very badly wounded indeed, I believe,’ said John. ‘An idea has come to me. Perhaps you should go out to nurse him.’

  ‘You … you would send me to him. Does that mean …?’

  ‘It means that if you were in France, so should I be and the sea would not separate us.’ He had become excited. ‘Listen, my love. I shall have to leave England soon. I have little heart for this coming campaign, but I must go since my father cannot go, nor can my brother. Even he must realise he is too sick for more campaigns. I must leave for France. My spirits would be lifted indeed if when I arrived there I should find you … waiting for me.’

  She shared his excitement. She must go. She must nurse Hugh. Often she suffered great remorse on his account. She had something to tell John. She had not wished to mention it until she was sure, but now there could be no doubt.

  ‘I am going to have your child,’ she said.

  A wild joy came over him. It was a delight which he had not felt at the prospect of Constanza’s legitimate child.

  ‘I am so happy,’ she told him. ‘I had always feared the day would come when you would no longer be with me. I could not hope that you would go on loving me.’

  ‘You talk nonsense, Catherine, and that is not like you. I shall love you till the day I die.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she answered. ‘And I shall have your child. How I shall love it. How I shall cherish it.’

  ‘I too,’ he replied fervently. ‘Now let us plan. You will go on ahead of me. It is impossible for you to travel with the armies. Oh, my Catherine, this has changed everything. I dreaded journeying to France. Now there is all the difference in the world for when I arrive there I shall find you awaiting me.’

  John, assiduous in his care for Catherine, had arranged for her to travel almost royally. She had women to attend her and one of these was a midwife, for John was very anxious, even though it was some months before the child was due, that nothing should go wrong.

  Philippa and Elizabeth had been aware that there was some unusual relationship between their father and their governess, and that this gave an importance to Catherine. They were very fond of her; and Elizabeth, who was more precocious although four years younger than her sister, was adept at listening to the gossip of serving men and women. Catherine was a sort of wife of their father she gathered, though not a real one. They had a stepmother, the Queen of Castile, of whom they saw very little; they much preferred Catherine.

  And now they heard that she was going away from them. She had a husband it seemed, who was the father of young Thomas and Blanche whom they had seen now and then. And now Catherine was going away and someone else would teach them and be constantly in their company. It was rather mysterious and disturbing. Henry was reduced to tears at the prospect. But nothing they did could keep her; and in due course Catherine was ready to depart.

  Now they must say goodbye to their father for he was going away too. He was going to fight the wicked French who would not give their grandfather the crown which really belonged to him.

  It was all somewhat mystifying but as the weeks passed they became accustomed to being without Catherine and soon Henry could not remember what she looked like.

  It was a long and tortuous journey across France. In the first place it had been necessary to wait for a favourable wind; and then they must be very careful not to venture near those places where there might be danger of meeting the French.

  Catherine began to realise that it had not been over zealous of John to send a midwife with them.

  She was far gone in pregnancy when they reached Bordeaux and she wondered what she would say to Hugh when she came face to face with him. He might well have heard of her relationship with the Duke of Lancaster in which case he might not be surprised to see her so heavily pregnant.

  Poor Hugh! Did he regret their marriage? If he recovered perhaps John would advance him in some way. She would ask him. Not that that would compensate him for the wrong they had done him. It was possible that he had had a few mistresses, for he was not the sort of man to resist the call of the flesh. A sorry business, she thought; and but for the existence of Thomas and Blanche she would have wished the marriage had never taken place. The children always stirred feelings of guilt in her but this wild all-consuming passion between herself and John had been such as to set aside all other considerations.

  By the time she reached Bordeaux Hugh was dead, and she could not help feeling relieved, dreading their meeting as she had. His servant told her that he had suffered greatly from his wounds and finally they had become so inflamed that his flesh began to mortify.

  He had been buried hastily because of his putrefying flesh and it was feared that her journey had been in vain. Orders had been received from the Duke of Lancaster that her child should be born in Beaufort Castle in Anjou where preparations had been made for her, so there was nothing to do but continue her journey which she did.

  She arrived at Beaufort Castle in time for her child to be born.

  It was a boy and she called him John after his father.

  It was not long after the birth that John came to the castle. His delight in their son was great. A perfect boy, he said. How like her to give him a boy. Constanza’s child was a girl. She had called the child Catherine, which seemed a little ironical since it was the name of her husband’s mistress.

  ‘It must mean that she does not revile me for taking your love,’ said Catherine.

  ‘It means that she is quite indifferent to what happens to me … or to you. She wanted me to fight for her crown. She still does and she is hoping that I shall win it for her one day. That is her only concern.’

  It was a comfort to Catherine. She had no desire to live in anything but peace with her lover’s wife.

  So they were together again if only briefly and they must make the most of the time; he visited her whenever it was possible. It had been a piece of good fortune that had given her a reason for coming to France.

  But he must tear himself away from her for he had been appointed Captain General of the armies with three thousand men at arms and eight thousand archers as well as other troops under his command.

  It might have been that he was unlucky in war; it might have been that his heart was not in the fight; it was very likely that he longed to be in Beaufort Castle; in any case his campaign was far from successful. He marched through Artois and Champagne to Troyes and into Burgundy and Bourbonnois to the mountains of Auvergne. The winter had come and it was severe; it was hard to find food for th
e soldiers. He had to keep on the move and at the end of December he arrived at Bordeaux. The campaign had been disastrous. His losses had been great and nothing was achieved.

  He was utterly depressed until a messenger came from Beaufort with a letter from Catherine with news of herself and little John. She was pregnant once more and she was longing for the birth of their second child.

  How he yearned to be with her. He must see her.

  There was nothing to be done, he assured himself, during the winter months. So he rode to Beaufort and he was comforted by her presence; but he could not stay for long and must go back to Bordeaux. He wanted to know immediately when the child was born.

  In due course he heard. Another boy. ‘I am naming him Henry,’ she wrote. ‘You have one son Henry but this little one will be Henry Beaufort and I believe you will love him as much as you do his brother.’

  He had to see her so once more he made the journey. She had lost none of her attraction and seemed more desirable than ever. She was meant to be a mother. She glowed with health and pride in her two Beaufort boys as she called them. She had never felt like this about Thomas or Blanche Swynford, and although she had been fond of the children, she had been able to leave them to the care of nurses.

  ‘It is because these boys are your sons,’ she told John. ‘It is because of you that they mean so much to me.’

  Reluctantly he tore himself away. The winter was passing and he would have to go into action again. Messengers kept arriving at Bordeaux with impatient messages from the Black Prince who was firmly convinced that if he had been on the scene there would be a different story to tell.

  Perhaps that would have been so, thought John. He is a general; he was born to command an army. It is different with me. I believe I was meant to rule but to rule through diplomacy and thoughtful scheming. I would hold my place not with arms but with subtle actions.

  A messenger from the Duke of Anjou proposed that his army should meet that of the Duke of Lancaster at Moissac and until that time there should be a truce between them.

  To this John agreed with alacrity. A truce would enable him to spend time with Catherine. News came from home that the King was growing almost senile, and it seemed that he could not live very long. The Prince’s health had deteriorated too; before long there must be a new King of England and it would not be an Edward.