by Jean Plaidy
They were happy days indeed as the spring passed into summer but they could not go on for ever and one day a messenger from the Duke of Lancaster came riding to the castle with the command that Henry was to join his father.
It would only be for a short time, he told Mary. As soon as he could he would return or if that were not possible he would send for her to come to him.
She knew that she must accept this. She watched him ride away and desolation overcame her. She must try to be brave she knew. It was what happened to all wives. Their husbands could not stay with them for ever.
It was shortly after Henry’s departure that she knew she was to have a child.
She was delighted, although she overheard her women discussing the matter in private and she knew that they shook their heads and melancholy looks came into their eyes.
One of them said: ‘She’s too young I tell you. It’s not right for one so young.’
‘They say,’ said another, ‘that if a woman can conceive she’s ripe for child bearing.’
‘She’s little more than a baby herself. They should have waited.’
She did not want to hear more. Such talk frightened her.
There came a day when the Earl and Countess of Buckingham were passing Kenilworth. They stayed for a night, and that was very unpleasant.
Eleanor was cold; Thomas was hotly indignant.
‘By God’s ears,’ he said. ‘I’ll never like brother John again. He planned this, he did. He waited until I went away.’
‘It was not so,’ she cried.
‘Married!’ cried Eleanor. ‘At your age. It shocks me deeply.’
‘You were going to send me into a convent,’ retorted Mary. ‘I was old enough you considered to make up my mind about that.’
‘How could you have been so deceitful. The nuns are heartbroken.’
‘The Abbess was most concerned that I should be sure I was doing what was best.’
‘I wonder you are not ashamed,’ cried Eleanor. ‘To go off like that and the next thing we knew was that you were betrothed!’
‘It so happened that Henry was at Arundel . . .’
‘So happened!’ snapped Eleanor. ‘It was arranged. And why do you think it was arranged? Because you happened to be an heiress, that’s why. Do you think the high and mighty Duke of Lancaster and his romantic son would have been so eager to take you without your fortune?’
‘Is that why Thomas took you?’ retorted Mary.
‘You wicked girl! You give yourself airs. How dare you talk to me thus. Oh I am so disappointed. After all we did. We went to Pleshy because you were so interested in the convent there.’
Thomas shouted, ‘Stop bickering. The evil is done. Would to God I had not been out of the country at the time. I would have taken up arms against Lancaster. I would . . .’
He spluttered on in his rage. It was all so ridiculous, thought Mary. He would not have dared to take up arms against his brother over such a matter. But perhaps he would. He was known throughout the country as a man who acted on impulse however foolishly.
She was glad when they departed. It was very upsetting.
Occasionally Henry visited her but he was in attendance on the King and could not be with her as often as he wished. She liked to hear about the King whom she suspected Henry despised a little. He was not as clever as Henry at any of the outdoor sports; Henry would always triumph over him.
‘Does he mind?’ asked Mary.
‘Not he. He cares more about his books; and he will talk of his fine clothes for hours. He is very particular about his food. Not that he eats a great deal; but it must be served in the most delicate manner. To tell you the truth, Mary, he is not what one thinks of as a king.’
Henry was often wistful when he talked of the King. Mary understood why when he said to her one day: ‘Do you know, if my father had been the first of his father’s sons, I should have been the King.’
‘Would you have liked that, Henry?’ she asked.
‘It is not a matter of liking it,’ was his reply, ‘but of accepting the fact and moulding oneself accordingly. You see Richard was not meant to be King. If his elder brother had lived he would have taken the crown; and then his father died and there he was aged about nine years old, King of England.’
A faint resentment was in Henry’s voice.
She did not say so, but she was glad his father had not been the eldest for then she would in due course have been Queen and she knew that would have been rather alarming.
Henry’s visits were so brief and she was left much to herself. She did a great deal of needlework, played her guitar, learned new songs to sing for Henry and awaited the birth of her child with some impatience.
She heard scraps of gossip from the women. She could get a picture of what was happening in the outside world from them. She discovered that there was a murmuring of discontent throughout the country. Some said the peasants were getting too big for their boots because of the land laws which enabled them to cultivate for their own use a portion of the land belonging to the lord of the manor and to pay for it by working for him. They complained that the lord took the best of their time and their own crops were spoilt because they could not deal with them in an emergency since at such a time the lord’s own lands would need all their attention. They were slaves. They were bound to the land and so were their children. But the greatest grievance of all was the poll tax which was levied on every man, woman and child over fifteen.
She heard the name of John Ball which was mentioned frequently. He had been, she gathered, a ‘hedge priest’ which meant that he had had no church and no home of his own, but had wandered about the countryside preaching and accepting bed and board where he could find it. He had preached to the people on village greens at one time but when he began to be noticed by people in authority, these meetings had been held in woods at night.
Not only had he been preaching religion, it had been said, but he was preaching revolution for he was urging the peasants to rise against their masters, to throw off slavery, and demand what he had called their rights.
It was not to be wondered at that a man who preached such fiery doctrines should be considered dangerous, and John Ball had been seized and put into the Archbishop’s prison of Maidstone.
And now there was all this talk about the peasants’ unrest; but no one took it very seriously.
Certainly not the household at Kenilworth where all were concerned with the coming birth.
It began one early evening when Mary sat with her ladies. She was playing the guitar while they stitched at their tapestry. The child was due in a few weeks and Mary was suffering acute discomfort. It was all very natural, said her women; it was the fate of all in her condition and all the inconvenience of the last months would have been worthwhile when her child was born.
Her pains began suddenly and they were so acute that her women took her to her bed immediately and sent for the doctors.
She was lost now in mists of pain; she had never believed there could be such agony. Vaguely she heard a voice saying: ‘But she is only a child herself . . . too young . . . immature . . .’
She had lost count of time. She just lay waiting for the waves of pain to sweep over her, to subside, to flow away and then flow back. It seemed as though it would never end. She lost consciousness and when she awoke the pain had gone. She felt completely exhausted and for some time was unsure of what had happened. And when she remembered her first thoughts were for the child.
‘My baby . . .’ she murmured.
There was silence. She tried to struggle up but she was too tired. ‘Where is my baby?’ she asked shrilly.
One of her women came to the bed and knelt down. She was about to speak and then she bowed her head and covered her face with her hands.
‘Tell me,’ said Mary stonily.
‘My lady,’ said the woman, and there was a sob in her voice, ‘the child was born . . . a beautiful child . . . perfect in limb . . .’
‘Yes, yes. Where is it?’
‘It was born dead, my lady.’
Mary sank back on her bed. She closed her eyes. All the months of waiting . . . all the hopes and plans . . . gone. The baby was born dead.
‘There will be more . . . later,’ went on the woman. ‘You have come through, praise be to God. You are going to get strong again and then, and then . . .’
Mary was not listening. Henry! she thought. Oh Henry, I have disappointed you.
She was unable to leave her bed. She lay listless wondering where Henry was, what he was doing now. He would come to her room, she was sure. She would not be able to bear his disappointment.
She was right. As soon as the news was taken to him he got leave of the King to ride to Kenilworth.
He knelt by the bed. He took her hands and kissed them. She must not fret, he said. They would have a son in time . . .
He did a great deal to comfort her. Think how young they were, both of them. They had the whole of their live’ before them. They must not fret because they had lost this child. He sat by her bed and he talked to her of the future and how happy they were going to be and in time they would have as many children as his grandfather King Edward and his grandmother Queen Philippa had had. She would see.
She began to recover, but she was still weak.
A few days after Henry arrived there was another visitor to Kenilworth. This was Mary’s mother, the Countess of Hereford.
She went at once to her daughter, embraced her and then declared that she had come to nurse her. Joanna de Bohun was a woman of great strength of character; she was devoted to her daughters and in particular to Mary because she was the younger of the two. Eleanor, she believed, was able to take care of herself.
Joanna had always resented the fact that the custom of the land demanded that her daughter be removed from her care and that she should become the ward of John of Gaunt, in order, so she said, that that mighty Duke should have the prize money which went with such appointments.
She, Mary’s mother, was better fitted to look after the child than anyone; and in view of what had happened she had now come to assert that right.
Mary was delighted to see her mother.
The Countess studied her daughter and hid the concern she felt. The child was too thin. What a terrible ordeal for a girl not yet twelve years of age to pass through. Some girls developed earlier than others and then early childbearing might be permissible; but Mary herself was still too childlike and delicate.
There shall be no more of this, thought the Countess grimly. If I have to fight John of Gaunt himself I’ll do so.
‘Dearest Mother,’ said Mary. ‘I am so happy to see you.’
‘God bless you, my child. It is natural that when my daughter is ill her mother should be the one to look after her. You are going to be well in a week. I shall see to that.’
Mary smiled. ‘We always had to obey you, my lady,’ she said. ‘So I must do so now.’
‘Indeed you must and shall.’
Henry had come into the sick room and the Countess was aware of the manner in which Mary’s face lit up at the sight of him. A fine boy, she thought, and indeed a worthy husband for a de Bohun, but they were too young . . . far too young, and there was going to be no more of this.
Henry welcomed her gallantly and was clearly delighted that she had come for he was apprehensive about his young wife’s health and she liked him for it. She told him she would soon have Mary well.
‘No one understands a daughter like her own mother,’ she announced.
She took charge of the invalid. She had a bed brought into the room which she would occupy. She would be with Mary day and night. She made possets and special broths for her daughter which under the stern eye of her mother Mary dared not refuse.
She felt a great sense of security which she had missed in the days of Pleshy. To be here with Henry and her mother made her very happy and she began to grow away from her sorrow at the loss of the baby.
‘You have your whole life before you,’ said her mother. There was one matter which she had not discussed with Mary yet, but she intended to when she considered the time ripe.
She blamed herself for not being firm enough in the first place. When she became a widow she should have refused to allow her younger daughter to be taken out of her care.
The King had given the wardship to John of Gaunt as a consolation prize for something else, and she had been obliged to let her daughter go because of the royal command. Her husband, Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex, had been one of the richest men in the country and so had a vast fortune to leave, and it was that fortune which had led to this situation when Mary might have lost her life.
She was now putting her foot down firmly and taking matters into her own hands.
She broached the subject to Henry first.
‘Henry,’ she said, ‘I am going to talk to you very seriously. I am deeply concerned about Mary.’
He looked alarmed. ‘I thought she was getting better.’
‘She is. But you know, do you not, that she has come near to losing her life.’
‘I know she has been very ill.’
‘The plain fact is that she is too young to bear children. Her body is not yet fully formed. She needs another two years at least in which to grow up.’
Henry looked shamefaced and the Countess went on hurriedly: ‘I do not blame you. It is the fault of those who put you together at such an early age.’
Henry flushed hotly. His father was a hero in his eyes.
‘Oh, men do not always understand these matters,’ said the Countess hastily, realising that if she were to have her own way in this matter she must not antagonise John of Gaunt.
She believed she knew how to handle this, but she would have to be tactful; and she knew that John of Gaunt’s great desire had been to get the marriage celebrated and Mary’s fortune secure. That had been done and he would be prepared to postpone the begetting of children for a few years.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Henry.
‘There must be no marital relations between you for at least two years. You must see the reason for this. There must not be any more children . . . yet.’
‘Have you told Mary?’
‘I will explain to her. She will understand. In fact I am sure she does not want to endure again what she has so recently come through. What I am going to suggest is that I take Mary back with me. I shall look after her and you will know that she is safe in her mother’s care. You will be welcome at my castle whenever you wish to come on the understanding that there is to be no lovemaking until she is of a suitable age.’
Henry was ready to swear to agree to these terms. He had been very very anxious about Mary and had felt a terrible sense of guilt. But now she was well again and he could see that they must wait a few years before they lived together. Yes, he could do nothing but agree.
The Countess was triumphant. John of Gaunt was absent in Scotland on the King’s business so he could raise no objections. Eleanor and her husband were no longer interested now that her share of the de Bohun fortune was lost to them.
She had only to tell Mary and as soon as the girl was well enough to travel they would leave.
Mary listened attentively to her mother.
‘My dearest child,’ said the Countess, ‘I was very sad when you left me to go to your sister. It was no wish of mine, you know.’
‘I do know,’ said Mary fervently.
‘It is so wrong when a child is taken from her rightful place just because she happens to have a fortune. Oh that fortune! I could wish that your father had been a much poorer man. Your sister coveted it . . . and so did her husband. They would have had you in a convent for the sake of it.’
‘I was fortunate to meet Henry,’ put in Mary. ‘He does not care for my fortune.’
The Countess was silent. Did he not? She would be surprised if this were so. In any case there was one who cared deeply and that was Henry’s
father, John of Gaunt.
Thank God he was in Scotland and could not interfere. And would the King? He had given the wardship to his uncle John. No, she had nothing to fear from Richard. He was only a boy. If need be she would see him and explain; she was sure she could touch his pity for a mother who was concerned about her child.
‘My dear,’ went on the Countess, ‘you know very well that you have been very ill. There was a day when your life was despaired of. The fact, daughter, is that you are too young as yet to bear children. Henry agrees with me that you must wait for a year or so.’
‘Wait . . . what do you mean?’
‘You and Henry will be as betrothed . . . There will be no more marital relations between you.’
‘I must ask Henry . . .’
‘I have already spoken to Henry. He sees the point. He agrees with me.’
She looked relieved. Then she said in alarm: ‘Do you mean I shall not see Henry?’
‘Of course you will see Henry. He will come to Leicester to visit us. He will stay and you will sing your songs and play your guitar together. You’ll pit your wits at chess. It is simply that you will be as betrothed . . . as though the actual ceremony of marriage has not yet taken place.’
She was silent. And her mother burst out: ‘You shall not be submitted to that pain again. You are too young to bear children as yet. Your body is not ready for it. All I ask is for you to wait for a year . . . for two years perhaps. In fact I am going to insist.’