'What is it?' She heard his voice in the darkness and as he reached out to draw back the curtain on his side of the bed she saw that it was already daylight, sunshine pouring in the room. She lay gasping, aware of moisture on her forehead, stiffness in her swollen body, and of ineffable comfort as he gathered her into his arms.
'Is it the child?' he asked. 'Has the time come?'
'No, no, I don't think so. Edward –' uncontrollable sobs rose in her – 'Edward, my love, my dearest, don't leave me. That dream again – you will die, I know it.'
'My darling, you are distraught,' he said and smoothed the hair from her forehead. 'Only your condition makes you fear the dark visions of the night. See, it is day now and all nonsense gone.'
She was still sobbing hysterically. 'There is no one like you in all the world and if you – left me – I do not think I could bear it. When I think of you going to Castile on so perilous a venture the blood freezes in my veins. I swear my heart near stops. Oh Jesu, pity me, pity me!'
'Jeanette, Jeanette!' he said as calmly as he could, for her weeping brought tears to his own eyes. 'Don't be afraid. God is greater than men. He knows our case is just and will bring me safe home to you.'
She was still clinging to him in the grip of that panic she had felt once or twice before, and on the night of Tom's death. If she should lose Edward, she thought she should surely die and she clung to him, longing to imbibe some of his own immensely strong faith, but she could not keep back a last plea. 'Don't go – don't go!' the words were gasped out between sobs, and at last he said, 'I'll not leave until the child is born, I promise you. After that, I must.'
Gradually he quietened her until, exhausted, she slept and he called for Emma to watch over her.
Her hysteria seemed to him but a part of women's unbalanced state when they were with child, and though he was not himself personally taken with his new ally, his belief in Don Pedro's cause was not influenced by that, and he went downstairs to discuss tactics with the Castilian King.
On the Feast of Epiphany the babe came with no more than normal effort on his mother's part, a small delicate boy with peach coloured skin and a golden down on his head. He was baptized, Richard, and Joan sat propped in her great bed while those members of the court who could, squeezed into her chamber and watched as the Bishop of Limoges stood godfather to the boy and the sign of the cross was made on the little puckered forehead. With the safe delivery, she had recovered her equilibrium.
'A propitious day,' Edward had said when he came to see her and his second son. 'Could any day be better than the feast of the Magi and their gifts to our Lord Christ? There is a good omen to set against your dream!'
Four days later he left, and though they kissed again and again before they could endure this, their first parting, Joan did not cry out or weep as she had done on that night of terror, but kept her tears until he had ridden out under the great banner of England crossed by the filial label, his ostrich plumes tossing in the wind, his great charger white and caparisoned in black and red. Alice and Eleanor stood by the window describing it all to Joan as she lay in bed.
'He will come back,' she said half to herself. 'Our Blessed Lady will bring him back, I know it.' And she did not notice that Alice failed to add a prayer for her own young husband.
Edward sent back news as often as he could of skirmishes and marches, counter-marches and a castle won, but it was April before she had tidings of real import. Then it came in a long letter written by Edward and sent back by Robin Savage, now Sir Robert and fighting for the first time under his lord's banner. Since his escape from the plague Robin had developed into a serious and dignified young man, accepting his knighthood reverently in a manner to please the lord to whom he was devoted, and he told Joan a little of his own part in the victory of Najera and the defeat of Don Henry.
'But it was nearly the other way about,' he added, 'for the Sieur Bertrand du Guesclin, who as you know, lady, is one of the greatest soldiers in France, surprised our camp when we were at our most vulnerable, short of food and with many men sick.' He paused, smiling gravely. 'Praise God the Duke of Lancaster heard a sentinel yell out and he came from his bed, half dressed, to raise the alarm.'
Joan had been listening to every word.
'The Prince is unharmed? And my son, Sir Thomas?'
'All well, my lady.'
'There –' Joan turned a glowing face to Alice – 'did I not say it would be so?'
'We've lost more men from dysentery than in that fight,' Robin went on. 'The only pity was, Don Henry escaped, but we took du Guesclin and a number of others. They owe their lives to our lord.'
'How? If they were taken prisoner –'
Robin's mouth was grim. 'Don Pedro would have had their heads off there and then. He and my lord came near to a bitter quarrel, but the Prince had his way.'
Glowing at the picture he had painted, she took Edward's letter to a window ledge and sat there to read it.
'My dearest sweetheart,' he had written, 'all of us send you our warmest greetings. We have had a great victory, God be praised, and taken many prisoners, excepting only the one most desired. And now we are on our way to Burgos where we will see Don Pedro reinstated. You will be glad to know that my brother Lancaster and all the gentlemen of our army are in good fettle, and that your son bore himself well. My darling companion, I hope soon to be with you again. Kiss our sons for me. As for your own salutation, when I return you will see how deep is the love of your devoted husband.'
It ended with his name written with a great flourish and Joan pressed the paper to her lips, kissing it again and again. How Robin's description, she thought, lit the contrast between Edward's chivalrous behaviour and that of Don Pedro. In dying of the plague on her way to her wedding all those years ago, Edward's sister Joan had perhaps escaped a worse fate as the wife of Don Pedro.
At Burgos the Castilian swore on the high altar of the white stone cathedral to keep faith with his allies and his people, and the royal brothers, Edward and John and Edmund, gave thanks for the victory; Lancaster adding his own particular gratitude for the birth of his son Henry at Bolingbroke. Then, leaving Don Pedro to re-establish himself, the Prince and his army marched north for the pass of Roncesvalles and the road to Bordeaux.
There a great procession of clergy and the monks of St Andre came out to meet him, a choir of boys singing psalms of praise. Joan went with them to wait by the gate, little Edward with her. He was nearly three now and understood that all the people were watching for his father who had done something very great.
The army came in sight, a vast column of horsemen followed by foot soldiers, the standards hanging limply in the still warmth of the day; an army decimated by sickness, tramping wearily, many supported by their companions, but all proud of their victory and rich with Spanish plunder.
At the gate Edward saw his wife and little son, and handing his helm to Chandos, his reins to Nele Loring, he dismounted and came to them, catching Joan in his arms.
'I said I'd come back safely,' he said. He swung his son high to kiss the child's soft cheek, and the boy put his arms about his father's neck and kissed him back. Edward laughed and set him down, taking his hand. The other he held out to Joan.
'Come, we'll go together to our lodging and let the people see us.' And hand in hand they walked through the streets while from every door and window people cheered, crowds following them, wild with delight in their Duke. It was only afterwards that Joan remembered it as their last day of untrammelled happiness.
She thought Edward's face had lost its normal look of ruddy health but it was not until they were alone in their own apartment and he had been divested of his armour that she saw his skin had taken a yellowish colour, his ribs standing out with little flesh to cover them.
'Edward –' she came to him, holding his arms – 'oh my love, you can't be well. You have become so thin.'
'Most of us have been ill,' he said lightly. 'It was the heat and the lack of proper food. The fl
ux had me laid on my back at Bayonne but I'm better now.' He paused, looking down into her face. 'My darling, to have you in my arms again is all I want now, and perhaps a cool English breeze and a shower of rain, not that damned scorched earth in Spain.'
Something stirred in her mind - the memory of Tom coming back from the wintry siege of Paris and telling her all he needed was her love and warmth and sunshine. But Tom had died and here was Edward saying he needed her and coolness and English rain, and the need was the same. Only he was not going to die. Now that she had him back she would make him well again. She clung to him, thanking God their first parting was over, but when he made love to her, though his ardour was as great she sensed a weariness, a physical debility, and when their desire was satisfied he fell into an exhausted sleep. It was twelve hours before he woke and by then she had summoned the physician who advised rest, a few days in bed.
The Prince stayed where he was for only one and was then up and dealing with business. As time passed, it became apparent that the victory won at such cost had benefitted them little. Don Pedro, safely back on his throne, began almost at once to quibble about the money he owed the English for their support.
'God damn the man,' Edward said furiously. 'All this was done for him! How does he think I am going to pay my soldiers? The women made widows in his cause?'
The Duke of Lancaster, always at his side, added, 'And now we know that Don Henry is raising another army in France it will all be to do again.' He glanced at his brother. 'Edward, you are not fit to fight. Let me take what men I can raise and meet the French in the north. King Charles is not going to let this chance go by of striking at us through Anjou or Normandy.'
'You are probably right,' Edward agreed. 'I wish King Jean had lived. He would not have stabbed us in the back.'
Lancaster departed, taking Joan's son, John Holland, to squire him, and Edward went to see his prisoner, Bertran du Guesclin. The Breton had been treated almost as a guest, and they had talked together of warfare, of siege tactics, and whether the new bombards that used gunpowder and blew great stones against enemy walls or into their lines were really of much use. Edward was of the opinion that they frightened friend and foe alike and sent the horses careering madly. But today he did not start such a conversation. The pain in his bowels was severe and he asked du Guesclin if he was well, adding that he hoped the flux had not claimed him for a victim, his captive not having been at Mass that morning.
The Breton shook his head. 'No, my lord, I'm well. My foolish squire forgot to rouse me and I was sleeping like the dead. You lodge me too comfortably, I think! In fact I consider myself the most honoured knight in Christendom.'
Edward looked at him sharply, trying to read the expression in those vivid brown eyes. 'How so, seeing you are indeed my prisoner even if you do have silk sheets to your bed?'
Du Guesclin lounged against the window embrasure, half smiling, looking out towards the river. 'Why, in France they are saying, or so I'm told, that I am the one leader you fear so much you dare not set me free. I suppose it must be true since you have not suggested a sum for my ransom.'
Edward gave a smothered exclamation and the Breton went on coolly, 'How then should I not think my self honoured if the Prince of Wales fears to free me and face me in battle once more? For battle there will be, rest assured, my lord.'
'Good God!' Edward came and stood towering over him. 'Do you think we keep you here because we are afraid of you? By St George, it is not so.'
'Then name a sum for my ransom.'
Too late Edward realized he had been duped. Du Guesclin within these four walls was his greatest prize, his most able enemy with wings clipped. Without him Charles of France would be hard put to find such another leader for his army. But what could he say? Pride forced his answer. Arrogantly he named a huge sum. 'One hundred thousand francs and you shall go free.'
A little secret smile twisted the Breton's mouth. 'Sir, I would not think a lesser sum worthy of me.'
'So be it,' the Prince answered and strode from the room to inform his council of what he had done, regretting his hasty action before he reached them.
They listened in amazement. 'My lord!' Audley spoke for them all. 'Retract the offer. We cannot let du Guesclin go. It would be the height of folly.'
Edward's face went a dusky red. 'I have given my word and whatever you may think of the consequences, I've never yet gone back on that nor will I do so now.'
But it was madness and he knew it. Within a few weeks the Breton was back with Don Henry and preparing to march against the King of Castile.
In an attempt to raise money for a fresh army, Edward ordered a hearth tax to be levied on every household in Gascony, a move that antagonized his subjects of every rank, and there were now few cheers for the Prince when he appeared abroad in the streets. The Lord of Armagnac, hitherto a staunch supporter, went to Paris for a family bridal and stayed there to join the King of France. Edward's previous popularity crumbled.
He sent for Sir John Chandos who, after Najera, had retired to his estate in Normandy. Chandos, unable to resist his master's summons, came at once, an old battlehorse rearing and ready to take up arms again. But the rise in morale that his presence gave was short-lived, for he was killed attacking the French at Lussac. His loss was a profound blow followed almost immediately by another, for Sir James Audley collapsed after supper one night, unable to speak, the whole of one side paralysed. He lingered a while but another seizure ended his life.
Edward went to the abbey church and knelt there until he was near fainting with weakness and the monks praying with him came to his aid.
'Will God strip me of all my friends?' he asked in a low broken voice, and no one answered him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A few weeks later, after attending a hastily called meeting of his council, Edward went to his wife's solar to find her. He had a parchment in hand. 'It is over,' he said in the manner of one goaded beyond endurance, 'and I can do nothing!'
'What is over?' Joan asked, and Alice's face lost a little of its healthy colour, while Eleanor, playing with ninepins on the floor with her little half-brother, turned to gaze at the taut figure of her stepfather.
'Du Guesclin and the King of Navarre – they trapped Don Pedro! He tried to relieve Toledo and failed and like a fool ran for the castle at Montiel, a small place not equipped for war. Of course they took him when he tried to escape and it seems the two brothers fought, not like honourable knights, but rolling on the floor as children do! Only it ended not as a boy's scrap but with Don Henry's dagger in Pedro's chest. Now his head is on a pike above the gates of Seville.' He slumped into a chair.
Joan was sitting very still. 'Then it has all been for nothing. We have ruined ourselves for that hideous man. I loathed him from the first day I set eyes on him and I wish you had never listened to him.'
'He had the right,' Edward said obstinately. 'What else could I do but aid a brother prince? But he lied to me. He never intended to pay me, I see that now, and all I have is an empty treasury for my trouble. God knows how deep in debt we are. This hearth tax must be exacted somehow and I'll find other ways.'
'Edward, you look so weary,' she said. 'Rest, my love. Think of it tomorrow. If you are hasty you will send more of our allies to the French King's banner.'
'Allies!' he exclaimed. 'They are worth nothing who so desert us.'
But he allowed her to lead him to their chamber and swallowed the drink she made him to ease the pain. Some days were better than others. He was cheered on hearing that his brother Lancaster had so successfully countered the French that he had been able to sail for England to raise fresh troops, but on another day he was plunged into grief on hearing the death of his mother. He wept for her, not having seen her for so long, his last memory being of her staunch support at the time of his marriage. Joan grieved with him for one who had shown her so much kindness from the day of her father's execution when she was no more than two years old. Lancaster, too, had gone home
to further sorrow for his beloved Blanche had died from plague, that silver-fair beauty wrecked by the horrible disease.
Depressed and no longer fit for physical exercise, Edward's normal good nature deserted him. If he gambled with his friends he became a bad loser and when his minstrels played to him or the jester cracked jokes he seldom smiled. He grew more haughty and permitted few men to sit with him on the dais. His younger brother Edmund was there but of little use, for Edmund cared for nothing but easy living, getting roaring drunk with his friends and generally making himself agreeable. He was kind enough and eager to help but he had no head for state affairs and no sense at all when it came to military matters. He patted Joan on the shoulder and assured her that when Edward was unwell he would take charge, which remark afforded her no comfort at all. She would have preferred Long Lionel to be there but he too was gone, dying in far-off Italy within months of his second marriage to an heiress in Milan.
Joan grew more and more anxious and summoned other physicians but all gave the same opinion – the disease contracted in the heat of Spain had a firm grip. She began to urge upon Edward the need to write to his father, to beg him to send Lancaster out in order that he himself might go home.
One night he terrified her by crying out, before ever the candle was blown out, that there was a devil in the room, that he could see the horns and the tail – or was it Don Pedro, the author of all his trouble? He pointed a shaking finger at a blank wall and shouted for a page to wash the stones clean. Somehow Joan managed to calm him, sending the frightened page scurrying away, and after a few moments he put a hand to his head and said, 'What happened? I cannot remember. I should have written to my father today – perhaps I had better –' and he began to get out of bed.
'No, no, my darling.' Joan tucked the covers back about him and thought in terror, dear God, is he going mad? 'The curfew has long since rung and all the clerks are in their beds. Tomorrow will do. Sleep now.'
Lady of the Garter (The Plantagenets Book 4) Page 18