The Star of Lancaster

by Jean Plaidy

  She loved to hear of these matters many of which she had heard discussed at Pleshy but they seemed more colourful and exciting coming from Henry. Or it may have been that as his wife she would have her part to play in them.

  He talked of Alice Perrers, the loose woman of whom the old King had become enamoured. She had bewitched him and robbed him and had even started to do so before Good Queen Philippa died.

  ‘I shall be faithful to you for ever, sweet Mary,’ vowed Henry.

  She swore that she would be true to him.

  They were idyllic days.

  But there was one small fear which had started in her mind. She had overheard women talking as women will – and all the talk at Arundel was of the coming marriage.

  ‘Oh ’tis a wonderful marriage. The best for the little Lady Mary. Why young Henry is the cousin of the King and the grandson of great Edward and the son of the great John of Gaunt. How much higher could she go than that . . . lest it was the King himself?’

  ‘But she is so young. Are they going to put them to bed together . . . Two children like that.’

  ‘The Earl of Derby is not so young. He’s rising fifteen. I have known boys of that age give a good account of themselves and I’ll swear young Henry is no exception.’

  ‘I was thinking of the Lady Mary.’

  Talk like that disturbed her; and it was not once that she was aware of these allusions.

  Henry noticed that she was disturbed and she told him why.

  He was all concern. Yes, there was that side to marriage but she need not fear. He knew what must be done and she could leave it to him. ‘You see, because of who I am we have to get children. We want sons.’

  ‘I always wanted children,’ she told him. ‘That was one of the reasons why I hesitated about going into the convent.’

  ‘Always remember that I saved you from that.’ He laughed at her fears. ‘Nay, there is nothing to fear. You will like well what must be done. I promise you that. We’ll have lusty sons. How will you like that?’

  She would like it very well, she told him. And she wondered why the women had tut-tutted and looked grave.

  Whatever she had to do with Henry would be good, she was sure.

  They sang together; they played chess; and she was fitted for the most splendid garments she had ever had. It was exhilarating until the messenger came from Pleshy with a letter from Eleanor. It was clearly written in a rage. Eleanor could not understand what had happened to her little sister whom she had always thought to be a saint in the making. How mistaken she had been for it was now disclosed that Mary was deceitful in the extreme. She had pretended to want the religious life, when all the time she was nothing more than a wanton. She had betrothed herself to Henry of Derby without consulting her sister. ‘After all we have done for you, Thomas and I,’ wrote Eleanor, ‘you treat us like this. I am deeply wounded. I beg of you stop this folly and come back to Pleshy. Here we will talk out these matters. We will see what it means. Why do you think John of Lancaster is so eager for this match? If you had been some girl without a fortune do you think Henry of Bolingbroke would have been so eager to marry you . . .?’

  Mary paused and thought: Had I been I should never have met him in this way. It was because I was staying at Arundel with my uncle and aunt that I did.

  ‘It is clear to me that it is your fortune which makes this marriage into the house of Lancaster so attractive to them,’ went on Eleanor’s letter.

  And, thought Mary, it is my fortune that makes you so eager for me to go into a convent that I may resign my share for you. Oh dear! How I wish I were indeed a penniless girl!

  That was foolish. Eleanor was right. John of Gaunt was pleased because of her fortune. It was different with Henry. She was sure he would have loved her whoever she was. But the marriage was welcomed because of the money. She was not so unworldly that she did not know that.

  ‘Come back to Pleshy without delay,’ commanded Eleanor. ‘We will talk of this matter. We will put our heads together and decide what is best for you.’

  She wrote back and asked Eleanor to come to Arundel. She was so caught up with the arrangements for the wedding that she could not travel. Eleanor would have recovered from the birth of dear little Joan now. But perhaps she would rather wait and join the celebrations at the Savoy.

  Eleanor was not one to give up. Mary must come back. Out of gratitude she must come. The Abbess was desolate. She was sure it was wrong for Mary to marry so hastily and while she was so young. Let her return to Pleshy. Let her talk with her sister. Let her remember all that Eleanor and her brother-in-law Thomas had done for her.

  Mary showed Eleanor’s letters to Henry. She wanted there to be no secrets between them, she said.

  Henry read the letters and said: ‘There is an angry woman. Sister though she may be to you, I would not let you go near her. Why she might lock you up and starve you into submission.’

  ‘Oh she is not such an ogre as that.’

  ‘I am protecting you from now on, Mary.’

  She was consoled. She was always so happy with Henry; she had even ceased to worry about the matter of the marriage bed.

  A few days before they were due to leave for the Savoy Mary’s mother the Countess of Hereford arrived at Arundel.

  She had of course been informed of the coming marriage of her younger daughter and she was somewhat uneasy about it.

  She would have preferred Mary to have remained in her care but in accordance with the custom, as Mary was a great heiress, she must become a ward of some person of high standing. There was no one of higher standing under the King than John of Gaunt and as Eleanor was already married to his brother Thomas of Woodstock, the Countess had no alternative but to let her daughter go.

  She could not of course complain about the husband selected for her. The eldest son of John of Gaunt, heir to the Lancastrian estates, a few years older than Mary, healthy, already a Knight of the Garter – there could not have been a more satisfactory match. But what concerned the Countess was the youth of her daughter.

  Mary was a child, as yet unready for marriage in the Countess’s view, and she should not marry until she was at least fourteen.

  She embraced her daughter warmly and looked searchingly into her face.

  She was certain there had been no coercion. The child looked very happy.

  She sought an early opportunity of speaking with the Duke of Lancaster.

  ‘I am happy about the marriage,’ she said, ‘apart from one aspect of it.’

  The Duke looked haughty as though wondering what aspect could possibly be displeasing about a marriage with his son.

  ‘It is the youth of my daughter.’

  ‘She is just eleven years old.’

  ‘It is too young for marriage.’

  ‘They are both young.’

  ‘Too young, my lord. Let them be betrothed and marry . . . say in two years’ time.’

  Lancaster appeared to consider that although he had no intention of doing so. Wait two years? Let Thomas and his harridan of a wife get to work on the girl? They would have her packed into a convent by some devious means in no time.

  ‘Poor Mary,’ he said, ‘she would be so unhappy. Wait until you see them together. They are so delighted to be in each other’s company. No I could not allow that. They shall live together . . . naturally like two children . . .’

  ‘I do not think girls of that age should have children.’

  ‘Children! They won’t have children for years. They are so innocent. You should hear them singing in harmony. They ride; they dance; they play chess. It is such a joy to see them. No, my dear Countess; they must marry. I understand a mother’s feelings, but let me assure you that there is no need for the slightest apprehension.’

  ‘I will have a talk with my daughter,’ said the Countess.

  John of Gaunt was uneasy. He wished the Countess had not come to Arundel but it had naturally been necessary to tell her what was planned for her daughter. She was a
shrewd woman. She would understand why Eleanor was trying to force the girl into a convent. But at the same time she would do all she could to keep Mary unmarried until she reached what she would consider a suitable age.

  The Countess talked to Mary.

  ‘My dear child,’ she said, ‘you are very young for marriage.’

  ‘Others have said that, my lady,’ replied her daughter. ‘But Henry and I love each other and are so happy together. He does not mind that I am young.’

  ‘You must understand that there are obligations.’

  ‘I know what you mean. It is the marriage bed, is it not?’

  The Countess was a little taken aback.

  ‘What do you know of these matters?’

  ‘That there is nothing to fear . . . if one loves.’

  She was quoting Henry. The Countess guessed that. There was no doubt that John of Gaunt was right when he said they loved each other.

  ‘I have asked the Duke to put off the wedding. At least for a year. Then we could consider again when it should be.’

  Mary looked very woebegone.

  ‘And will he do that?’

  The Countess put an arm about her daughter and held her firmly against her. She thought: No, he will not. He wants your fortune for his son. Dear child, what did she know of the ways of the world?

  At least she could console herself. The child was happy. So many girls in her position were forced into marriages which were distasteful to them. None could say that of Mary.

  The Countess knew the determination of John of Gaunt. No matter how she protested, the marriage would take place.

  She must resign herself to the fact that it was what Mary wanted.

  So they were married and there was great rejoicing in John of Gaunt’s palace of the Savoy, which was to be expected as this was the marriage of his son and heir. Mary was made to feel that she was marrying into the greatest family in the land and that her marriage was even more brilliant than that of Eleanor. Eleanor was not present. She had declined the invitation from her false sister; and Thomas was still in France.

  This breach created a mild sadness in the bride’s heart but she did not dwell on it. Henry had made her see that Eleanor was in fact more interested in the de Bohun fortune than the happiness of her younger sister, and Mary was beginning to look to Henry and to accept what interpretation he put on all matters, and as Henry was always only too delighted to tell her and she to listen, they grew fonder of each other every day.

  Now she was the Countess of Derby, and the imposing man who sat at the head of the table was her new father-in-law and there in the great hall of the Savoy Palace tables had been set up on their trestles, for all the nobility of the land must be present at the marriage of John of Gaunt’s son. Mary herself on the right hand of the great Duke with Henry beside her was at the high table. Her mother was there so were her new sisters-in-law Philippa and Elizabeth. Also present was a very beautiful woman whose presence caused a few titters among the guests. It was characteristic of the great Duke that he should insist that his mistress not only be present but be treated with all the deference which would normally be bestowed on his Duchess.

  Henry pressed Mary’s hand and she smiled at him. It was comforting to believe that while he was at her side all would be well.

  He selected the best parts of the food and fed them to her and happily she munched the delicate morsels, although she was not really hungry. But the guests revelled in the banquet, declared that they had rarely seen such large boars’ heads, such joints of beef and mutton, such pestles of pork, such sucking pigs which made the mouth water to behold. There was mallard, pheasant, chicken, teals, woodcocks, snipes, peacocks and partridges, as well as that delectable dish called the leche which was made of pounded raw pork, eggs, sugar, raisins and dates all mixed with spices and put in a bladder to be boiled; and then there were those pastry concoctions which were known as raffyolys and flampoyntes. Everything that could have been thought of to make this a feast to outdo all feasts had been provided.

  There would be a joust the next day but this one was given up to feasting and indoor merriment.

  The mummers trooped into the hall in their masks, some of these so strange that they looked like spectral figures and sent shivers of horror down the backs of the spectators. They wore horned animals’ heads and those of goats and creatures who could never have existed outside the imagination of the mask maker. Some of them wore masks of beautiful women which sat oddly on their square masculine bodies. But they were calculated to bring laughter to the lips of all who beheld them and this they undoubtedly did although some might have been overawed.

  It was wonderful to see them dance and play their scenes in mime. The company applauded with gusto and then the dancing began. Henry led out Mary and others fell in behind them. Lancaster danced with the beautiful Catherine Swynford; the company held its breath watching them and many thought – though they dared not give voice to such thoughts – that there was not a man in the kingdom now who would dare behave as John of Gaunt did. The old King had done it with his mistress Alice Perrers. It was a King’s privilege he would have said; but the people did not like him for it. In some way it was different with John of Gaunt. There was true love between those two and that being so obvious was something which must command respect wherever it was.

  Then John of Gaunt took Mary’s hand and danced with her while Henry danced with Lady Swynford. Her new father told Mary that he regarded this as one of the happiest days of his life. He wanted her to regard it as such also.

  The torches guttered and the evening was passing. It was time for Henry to lead Mary away. His father restrained the people who would have attempted to carry out some of the old customs. ‘They are young and innocent,’ he said. ‘I would not harry them. Let nature take its course with them.’

  In the great bedchamber which had been assigned to them, nature was taking its course.

  Henry was advanced for his years. He was in love with his bride and because she was intelligent beyond her age it did not occur to him to consider that she might not be physically mature.

  He was glad that there had been no ribald jokes; Mary would not have understood them and they might have alarmed her. As it was she was entirely his to teach as he could, he believed, so comfortably do.

  Henry helped her remove the wedding garments, which jewel encrusted as they were were heavily uncomfortable, and it was a relief to be free of them.

  She stood before him – a child in her simplicity. He himself took the loose nightgown and put it over her head.

  Then he led her to the bridal bed; she lay down while he divested himself of his garments.

  Then he joined her.

  Gently with tender explanation he initiated her into the mysteries of procreation which for such as themselves, who had the continuance of great families to consider, was the primary function of marriage.

  They set out for Kenilworth, for, as his father had said, Henry loved that best of all the Lancaster estates which would one day be his.

  Mary was very happy journeying with Henry; he was kindly, loving and gentle and she had not believed there was so much contentment in the world. If she could but forget Eleanor she could be completely happy.

  The sight of Kenilworth was breathtaking. They had travelled some way, for the castle was situated between Warwick and Coventry, being about five miles from each. It consisted of a magnificent structure of castellated buildings which owed their charm to the fact that they had been added to over the years, for Kenilworth had been nothing but a manor in the days of the first Henry who had bestowed it on one of his nobles and it was this noble who had begun the task of turning the manor into a castle. The keep was massive and was known as Caesar after that of the same name in the Tower of London. Kenilworth had the distinction of once belonging to Simon de Montfort and on his death it was bestowed by the King on his youngest son Edmund, Earl of Lancaster. Thus, like the Savoy, it had come to John of Gaunt through his ma
rriage with Henry’s mother, Blanche of Lancaster.

  Henry told Mary that his father, who had taken a great fancy to the place since it had been in his possession, had extended it even more than those who had owned it before, and to prove this Henry pointed out to her the magnificent extension which was known as the Lancaster Building.

  Kenilworth was a fairy tale palace ideally suited to a pair of young people who were realising the joys of getting to know each other.

  Mary would remember those days to the end of her life. She was completely happy and it did not occur to her in the full flush of her happiness to question its transience. She did not look to the future; if she had she would have known that a man in Henry’s exalted position could not revel in the joys of newly married bliss in the castle of Kenilworth for ever.

  They rode through the forest together – not hunting, for she had confessed to him that she hated to see animals killed and always hoped the deer and the boars would escape. Henry laughed at her but loved her more for her gentleness and he said that as she did not care for the hunt they would look for the signs of the spring and not for the spoor of animals.

  She did not care for hawking either; she liked to watch the birds flying free. She would stand and admire Henry when he practised archery and happily applauded when he excelled those in competition with him. She thought how fine he looked when he shot at the target with his bow which was the same height as he was and his arrow was one full yard long. Their attendants played games with them. There was great hilarity over Ragman’s Roll which was the preliminary to a mime. One of them would bring out a parchment roll on which were written couplets describing certain characters; and attached to these verses were strings with seals at the end. Each player must take a seal and pull the string and then play the character whose description he had picked. There were shrieks of laughter when this game was played for it always seemed that people chose the characters least like themselves. When they tired of mimes they would play Hot Cockles in which one player was blindfolded and knelt with hands behind the back. The other players would strike those hands and the kneeling blindfolded player must guess who was the striker before being released. Mary much preferred the games of chess when she and Henry would retire to a quiet corner and pit their wits one against the other, or when Henry suggested she should bring out her guitar and they sang and played together.