He had but one daughter of his marriage with Elizabeth, Philippa; and it was natural that he should marry again.
It so happened that the Visconti of Milan was looking for a suitable bridegroom for his beautiful and only daughter Violante. Negotiations were set in progress and after some time Lionel went to Milan to marry Violante. First though he had settled the future of his daughter Philippa by marrying her to Edmund de Mortimer, the Earl of March.
Then with suitable pomp he had set out and in due course had been married in Milan Cathedral to the beautiful and rich daughter of Galeazzo Visconti of Milan.
Blanche knew that John had not been very pleased by the marriage. She could read his thoughts. He still hankered for the crown, even though he had an elder brother and that brother, the ever popular Black Prince, had two sons, another Edward and young Richard of Bordeaux. She wished that she could curb those ambitious thoughts of his. But she knew she never would. They were part of his nature.
Naturally when Lionel, that other brother who would rightfully claim the crown if some disaster removed the Black Prince and his family, married again he was depressed. A young and beautiful wife, the warm sun of Italy, the pleasure-loving Lionel who indulged himself on every occasion, surely it would not be long before he fathered a child who would be yet another to stand between John and his desire.
Violante and Lionel were married and so great was the rejoicing in Milan that the festivities went on for weeks. That, John had said, will suit Lionel very well. His father-in-law Galeazzo was delighted with him, it seemed. The alliance with the English royal family was something he had set his heart on, and all seemed to be going well in Milan.
And then had come the shattering news.
Lionel was dead.
In the midst of the feasting he had become sick and although at first no one had taken his indisposition very seriously it had rapidly grown worse and a few days after it had begun he was dead.
The Queen could not believe the news when it was brought to her.
Lionel – the tallest of them all, the one who liked so much to enjoy life – dead. It could not be.
She and the King spent hours together trying to console each other.
It was too cruel a blow. Lionel was the seventh of her children to die. Two little Williams and Blanche had died at birth and that was less heart-breaking than losing them when they were grown up. Joanna had died of the plague on her journey to marry Pedro of Castile and Mary and Margaret had died of some mysterious ailments in their teens. The Queen had never recovered from that. And now Lionel, hale and hearty Lionel, was cut off like that in the flower of his youth.
She was old and sick and she knew – although she tried to pretend she did not – that Edward, who through the many years of their marriage had always kept up the show of being a faithful husband, and she believed he had been almost entirely so, was now unable to hide his lascivious longing for an insolent bedchamber woman.
All that she had borne and now here was the most cruel blow of all. One of her beloved sons was struck down by a cruel fate.
Edward sat beside her. He held her hand. He was not thinking of Alice now. Desperately he sought some comfort for himself and Philippa.
When John brought the news of his brother’s death to Blanche she could see that in spite of his tragic expression a certain triumph gleamed in his eyes and she knew that he was thinking: Lionel dead. One obstacle to the throne removed.
Then Blanche shivered with apprehension and fear for the future.
She went to her nursery and picked up the little Henry who was some eighteen months old now – lusty, bright-eyed, beginning to take notice of everything around him.
John joined her there. He could not keep away from the nursery and although he loved his girls all his hopes were centred on this boy.
She watched him take the child in his arms.
‘And what have you been doing today, Henry of Bolingbroke?’ he asked playfully.
She saw the dreams there … dreams for the boy.
There was the usual outcry about poison and Lionel’s father-in-law was suspected of taking his life. But, as John pointed out, there was no reason why Galeazzo would do so for the death of Lionel was the end of his ambitions for his daughter and Milan.
No, Lionel had indulged himself too freely with the food of the country; he had been unaccustomed to its strangeness and to the heat of that country; he had succumbed to that dysentery which often attacked travellers abroad and in his case it had been fatal.
He was buried first at Pavia but he had asked in his will that his remains should lie in the convent of the Austin Friars at Clare in Suffolk so they were brought there and placed beside those of his first wife.
In the midst of this mourning Blanche gave birth to a son.
John was delighted with the boy and he was named after his father.
Alas, poor little John lived only for a few days.
Blanche was desolate. In spite of all her care the child was gone.
She was a great deal with the Queen and they tried to comfort each other.
‘We must be brave,’ said Philippa, ‘you have your daughters and your boy Henry. I have my dear Edward, my John, Edmund and Thomas left to me as well as my daughter Isabella. We must be thankful for what is left of us.’
It was clear however that the shock of her son’s death and the knowledge that Edward was drifting away from her had cast a heavy shadow over the Queen.
* * *
It was in the royal household that Blanche again encountered the young poet, Geoffrey Chaucer.
The Queen had taken an interest in him because he had married one of her bedchamber women, Philippa de Roet. ‘A good girl,’ the Queen had said, ‘perhaps over zealous. Given to bustling and taking much on herself. But reliable and honest. A good wife I think for Geoffrey. Lionel thought highly of him. He has written some pleasing verses.’
Because Lionel had thought highly of Geoffrey and had enjoyed his poetry and given him a stipend which was more than he would have earned as an ordinary page, the poet was now taken into the royal household.
It was a pleasure for the Queen to know that her bedchamber woman, Philippa de Roet, was married. She gave rich presents to the pair and took a personal interest in them. Philippa Chaucer continued to serve in the bedchamber and Geoffrey was often summoned to the Queen’s presence to read his poetry to her.
She talked to Blanche of the girl who was a much pleasanter subject than that other bedchamber woman, Alice Perrers.
‘She will make Geoffrey a good wife. He needs someone who is practical to look after him. He is a dreamer that young man, but he writes well and his verses are thought very highly of. The King enjoys them. Lionel was delighted with them. Dear Lionel, he would have wanted us to find a place for Geoffrey.’
‘I have noticed him.’
The Queen laughed. ‘And he has noticed you. When your name is mentioned he all but falls on his knees in worship. He admires you, Blanche, oh in the most respectful way.’ The Queen went on, ‘I felt a certain responsibility to Philippa de Roet. Her father was a good servant to me. He came over from Hainault to join me. He would wish to see his daughter settled in life, which she will be with young Chaucer. The King will give him a pension, I am sure. He has promised me to see to it.’
‘They are a fortunate young pair to have won your interest, my lady.’
‘I did feel I must do what I could for de Roet’s girl. He was a good and honest servant. She has a sister who has recently married … rather well. I think, for someone in her position. Philippa was telling me about it. This sister Catherine is something of a beauty I gather. In any case she has managed to attract Sir Hugh Swynford. John will know him. He is one of his men and I believe was with him in Gascony recently. However this girl Catherine was clever enough to get him to marry her and it was clever of her because she has no fortune. De Roet left nothing. That is why I feel I must do what I can.’
‘At least you ha
ve only to concern yourself with one daughter since the other knew how to take care of herself.’
‘Catherine is Lady Swynford – a fact which pleases her sister mightily. Mistress Chaucer does not sound so well in her ears as Lady Swynford. I tell her, you have married a poet, my child. Your husband’s verses may well live on after we are all dead and gone when the world may have forgotten a country squire and his wife. Dear Philippa de Roet. I think she is a little impatient with her husband’s verses.’
‘I should like to see the girl.’
‘My dear Blanche, you shall. I shall have her wait on me this day. She shall sit there with the ladies and work on the garments we are making for the poor. I always feel happy when we are working on those garments although I love to embroider in bright colours. I think of the poor often, Blanche, particularly now that I am old and tired and ill. I think of what a happy life I have had and how some of them live in misery and poverty …’
‘Happiness and riches do not necessarily go hand in hand,’ said Blanche.
‘You speak wisely, dear child. I hope you will be as happy in your marriage as I have been … until …’
The Queen stopped abruptly and Blanche bent her head low over her work that Philippa might not see the flush which had arisen to her cheeks.
That afternoon Philippa Chaucer was in attendance and Blanche was able to study the sturdy young woman who had married the poet. The marriage would have been arranged for them and neither partner would have chosen the other; and it occurred to her that they could well be an incongruous pair.
She and the Queen talked of her children as they so often did.
The girls were of an age now when they needed a governess and she was looking for a suitable person. She must have someone who loved children. There was little Henry too. He was becoming the terror of the nursery. Blanche wanted someone who would be able to teach the children a little and at the same time take charge of them in a motherly way. She did not want the usual high-born governante.
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said the Queen. ‘You want someone who will show that devotion to them which Isolda Newman gave to John.’
Blanche agreed that was what she was looking for.
‘We will look for someone and I am sure we shall find the right person.’
It was a few days later when the Queen asked Blanche to come to her apartments. She was in bed and looking very tired. She told Blanche that she had been too weary to rise that day.
‘But let us not talk of my dreary ailments. There are more interesting subjects. Philippa Chaucer has been to me with a request. She said quite candidly that she had overheard our conversation when she was stitching with the ladies and she wishes to put forward the name of her sister as governess to the children.’
‘Philippa Chaucer’s sister. That would be interesting.’
‘I have told Philippa that I will lay the matter before you. Philippa is eager for her sister to be part of Court life. She says it is no place for her tucked away in Lincolnshire. Swynford’s estate is not a large one, and Philippa says her sister lives like a farmer’s wife. I wonder what you feel about this.’
Blanche said: ‘I should like to see this Catherine Swynford. She may well be just the one I need. Moreover I should like to do something for the Chaucers.’
‘I thought you might,’ said the Queen. ‘I will tell Philippa to send her to you.’
A few moments later Philippa herself entered with a posset for the Queen.
Blanche wondered whether she had been listening to the conversation and had timed her entry that there might be no delay in sending for her sister. There was that about Philippa Chaucer which suggested a resourcefulness and a determination to arrange the fortunes of her family.
‘Ah, Philippa,’ said the Queen, ‘we have been speaking of you, the Duchess and I.’
‘The Queen has told me of your sister,’ said Blanche. ‘You may tell her to come and see me.’
Philippa flushed with pleasure as she made a deep curtsey and murmured her gratitude.
The Queen took the posset and when Philippa had gone she said, ‘They bring me these things. I drink them to please them. But there is no remedy for what ails me, Blanche.’
Blanche took the Queen’s hands and kissed them in a rush of affection. ‘You must not lose hope, dear lady. So many of us need you.’
* * *
When she had first seen Catherine Swynford, Blanche had been startled by her appearance. Catherine was a strikingly attractive woman and far younger than Blanche had imagined her. She had been thinking of another Philippa – rather square, sturdy, not unattractive in a fresh and countrylike way, a homely woman, motherly, perhaps a little forceful like her sister, the sort who would know how to gain immediate obedience from the children.
Instead of that here was Catherine. Tall, slender, about eighteen years of age – abundant hair with more than a hint of red in it, long greenish eyes fringed with lashes the blackness of which contrasted arrestingly with her white skin. The short nose was provocative and the full lips suggested a certain sensuality. Quite a disturbing young woman.
Blanche hesitated. She felt a little bewildered simply because the girl was so different from what she had been imagining her to be.
Catherine told her in a charming cultured voice that she had spent some six years in the convent at Sheppey.
‘The Queen arranged for me to go there,’ she said. ‘She has been very good to my family.’ Blanche bowed her head in acknowledgement of the Queen’s goodness.
‘My mother was French and my sister and I lived with her in Picardy while my father was at the wars. My father was herald to King Edward and knighted by him for bravery on the field.’
‘The Queen has told me something of this. He died, did he not?’
‘He was killed on the battlefield … fighting for King Edward.’
The girl lifted her head high. She was one who would not wish for charity. Doubtless she thought any service the Queen had given her and her sister had been earned with their father’s life.
‘The plague struck our household,’ went on Catherine, ‘and only my sister and I survived. We were brought to England and taken to the Queen. I was very ill and none thought I should survive so I was sent to the convent to be nursed by the nuns and my sister Philippa was found a place in the Queen’s household.’
‘And when you left the convent?’
‘I came to see my sister and Sir Hugh Swynford was at Court. He saw me … and very soon we were married.’
‘So you made a good match, Lady Swynford.’
‘It was called so, my lady.’
‘And you want to leave your country home and come to Court?’
‘My husband is in France serving the King. Our estate is very small and we have few retainers. Yes, my lady, I do wish to leave the country and come to Court.’
‘Very well,’ said Blanche. ‘I will send for the children and you shall see how you like them … and they like you.’
She sat still, with great dignity, confident that the children would like her.
They came into the room – Philippa eight years old and very much aware that she was the eldest; Elizabeth four years younger but already showing signs of a somewhat tempestuous nature and Henry who was not yet two years old in the charge of his nurse.
‘My dears,’ said Blanche to the two girls, ‘this is Lady Swynford who would like to be your governess.’
Elizabeth ran forward and stood looking up at Catherine. Philippa remained still watching her silently.
Catherine held out her hand. Elizabeth took it. Then Catherine knelt so that her face was on a level with the little girl’s.
‘I hope you will like me well enough,’ said Catherine.
Philippa came forward and took her sister’s hand.
‘I like her,’ said Elizabeth.
Philippa said nothing but there was approval in her silence.
Then young Henry finding that he was not the centre
of attraction made them all aware of his displeasure in his usual lusty fashion.
‘He is a spoilt boy,’ said Philippa to Catherine.
Catherine went to Henry and picked him up in her arms.
They looked steadily at each other and then Henry’s face broke into a beautiful smile.
It was clear that he, like his sisters, had taken a fancy to the beautiful new governess.
Catherine Swynford is an enchantress, thought Blanche.
* * *
There was bad news from Bordeaux. The health of the Black Prince so seriously affected at the battle of Nájara, far from improving, was steadily growing worse. Moreover Pedro of Castile had shown himself to be a dishonourable ally. He had kept none of his promises.
Edward had remained in Valladolid for some weeks during the hottest of the weather while he was waiting for the payment due to him for coming to Pedro’s aid, but Pedro had made constant excuses. Dysentery had struck the army and many had died of it. The Prince himself had been badly affected and some had even suggested that Pedro might have bribed one of his spies to poison him. Pedro’s reputation being what it was, this seemed a possibility.
The fact was that it had been a mistake to help Pedro back to his throne for he was a worthless ally and it would have been better to have left his bastard brother in control.
Because of his health Edward needed his brother’s help. He wanted John to come to France for he feared that Charles of France would take advantage of the situation so John must make preparations to come out at once.
John consulted with his father. The King was showing signs of his age. He had never recovered from the shock of Lionel’s death and he was worried about reports of Edward’s health. He was tormented too by Alice Perrers for while he deplored his infidelity to the Queen he could not resist Alice.
‘You must leave us, John,’ said the King. ‘Edward needs you. I should like you to tell me exactly how he is. I fear Joan is over anxious. She has always seen Edward so strong and healthy. She is afraid because he has this unfortunate illness. It will pass, I feel sure. But see for yourself, John, and tell me the truth. Alas, my son, you must once more leave your sweet wife. I know what it means to be torn from the side of one’s wife and children …’
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