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 brightWhich I have loved with all my mightIs 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 theeThat thou wouldst not have taken meWhen that thou took my lady sweetThat was so fair, so fresh, so freeSo good that men may well it seeOf 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 beating 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 har
mony 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 theeThat 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 she 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.
That was his feeling for Catherine. When he was with her it overwhelmed him; he would have been ready to offer her anything.
He was surprised to learn that she had had two children by Swynford – Thomas and Blanche.
‘Do you not long for them?’ he wanted to know.
Yes, there were times when she did. But she had the satisfaction of knowing that they were well cared for in the country.
He said no more of them. He feared she might wish to return to them.
‘How grateful I am to your sister Philippa,’ he said. ‘But for her we might never have met. Where is she now?’
‘She is still in the Queen’s household, but she will have to go, of course.’
‘Bring her here. Let her be of our household. Would that please you, Catherine?’
‘It is good of you, my lord.’
‘Philippa did so much for us, we must do something for her.’
He was wondering if he could do something for her children also. He would of course. But he would have to think carefully of that.
‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘I never dreamed there was a woman in the whole world who could please me as you do.’
Chapter IV
THE CASTILIAN MARRIAGE
John rode out to Windsor and presented himself to the King.
The sight of his father shocked him. Edward’s character seemed to have changed completely since the death of the Queen. He now had no reason to hide his relationship with Alice Perrers and the signs of debauchery were marked on his face. The blue eyes once so bright were dull and there were deep shadows under them; the strong mouth had slackened.
By God, thought John, he looks what he has become – an old lecher.
Alice sat beside him. It is true then, thought John, she scarcely lets him out of her sight. He is quite unbalanced. He must be to allow a woman like that to share in his councils with his ministers – and all because she insists! How could a man like his father – great Edward, hero of Crécy, sink so low. And all because of this woman!
But although Edward had prided himself on being a faithful husband who deplored promiscuity at his Court there had always been a latent sensuality in him which was straining to emerge. There had been rumours about his efforts to seduce the Countess of Salisbury; it had even been said that he had cast his eyes on Joan of Kent and there was that incident of the garter to suggest it might be true. Now it seemed, that since he had become a widower he had convinced himself that there was no need to conceal this side of his nature and it had broken free of restraint. Alice Perrers no doubt had determined that it should be so.
He bowed to his father, then to Alice.
She inclined her head and smiled at him, almost triumphantly as though to say: I know you don’t think I should be here but here I am and here I stay.
On her finger was a magnificent ruby ring which he recognised as his mother’s. So it had come to that. She was now in possession of the Queen’s jewellery.
She saw his eyes on the ring and she lifted her hand to her face that he might see it better – a triumphant insolent gesture.
‘Welcome, my son,’ said the King. ‘It is a sad return for you to find dear Blanche no more.’
John was aware of Alice’s mocking glance. It was almost as though she knew of his encounter with Catherine.
‘I could not believe it when I heard,’ he said. ‘I was overcome with grief.’
‘She was a fine woman and a good wife to you. I was glad to see you
so satisfactorily settled.’
‘It was a fine marriage,’ put in Alice. ‘Look what it brought my lord. It made him the richest man in the kingdom next to you … my King.’
John would have liked to order her out of his presence but the King was smiling fatuously. He patted Alice’s hand.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘a good marriage. It makes it all the more sad that the plague took her. And I hear disturbing news of Edward.’
‘He suffered after Nájara,’ said John. ‘He never seemed to recover his old rude health. Joan cossets him and orders him … and he accepts it.’
‘A man needs a woman to look after him,’ put in Alice, smiling benignly at the King.
‘Alice speaks truth there,’ agreed Edward.
John felt sickened. He could scarcely believe that this was his father. If he must have the woman, let him keep her in the bedchamber. How could he have her here sitting beside him flaunting the Queen’s jewels. He was completely bemused by her. She did what she would with him.
Why? Why? She was a woman of no breeding. Fit only for the beds of serving men. And the King … Great Edward … Oh, it was unbelievable! And yet he recognised that inherent sensuality. Alice had it. Catherine had it. My God, he thought. It makes slaves of us all whoever we be.
‘Edward wants you to go out again,’ went on the King. ‘He says the King of France is bent on a conquest of Aquitaine. He has heard that the Dukes of Anjou and Berry are assembling two armies for the attack. Edward is sick. Joan does not wish him to go to war.’
‘Joan would not be able to prevent him if Aquitaine were attacked.’
‘I know it well. But I want you to go out there, John. I want you to leave as soon as you can muster an army. What can you raise?’
‘I could attempt to get together four hundred men at arms and, say, four thousand archers.’
‘Do it, John. Would to God I could go with you. Affairs in England …’
Alice looked at him and smiled provocatively.
‘You’re a minx,’ said the King.
John turned away impatiently.
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