The Star of Lancaster

by Jean Plaidy

  It was not Marie they had come for, but Katherine.

  ‘Your presence is required at Court, my lady,’ was the command.

  Marie embraced her warmly, but Katherine was aware of her sister’s relief.

  ‘It will be marriage for you,’ Marie said. ‘This means that I am to be allowed to stay here. I shall thank God for this blessing and, dear sister, I shall pray for you.’

  So Katherine rode out to her father’s Court. She had realised that the sequestered life of the convent was not for her.

  She was received by her father and she clung to him for she was so happy to see that his eyes were clear and that there was no madness in them.

  ‘Dear little daughter,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘How well you look, and how beautiful you have grown. You seem happy and that rejoices me. Be happy while you can, dear child. Sad things are happening to France.’

  ‘Dear lord father, nothing could bring me more happiness than to see you well’

  ‘Pray God that I stay so until such time as I see you happily settled.’

  ‘It is some marriage you have in mind for me.’

  ‘Yes, child, with the King of England.’

  ‘Henry. The one who asked for Isabella . . . and Marie . . .’

  ‘He wants a Princess of France.’

  ‘And I am the only one available.’

  ‘Dear child, it will be a brilliant marriage. Think, my love, you will be a queen.’

  ‘Isabella was a queen. It did not make her very happy.’

  ‘Ah, this is different. She was married to Richard . . . a weakling.’

  ‘She loved him dearly.’

  ‘It was no true marriage. She was but a child. She saw him rarely and he treated her like a pet daughter. Henry is different. There is one who is seated firmly on his throne. You will admire him, grow to love him and become the mother of kings.’

  ‘Oh no, Father. Let me be here for a while just as your daughter.’

  ‘It seems that you will,’ said the King grimly, ‘for the terms he asks are excessive and we cannot meet them.’

  She sighed with relief.

  ‘You know that we were defeated at Agincourt,’ went on the King. ‘It was a disastrous defeat. We had superior forces . . . but they were too much for us. With a small army decimated by dysentery and disease yet he came with his archers and our losses were great, his small. It seems he is another such as his great-grandfather and the Black Prince. If so, with France in its present state we cannot stand against them. He makes great demands and one of these is your hand. If it is not granted he says he will come and take what he wants. A strange way of wooing, I told him, to come to you covered by the blood of your countrymen.’

  ‘And what said he to that?’

  ‘His answer was that he is a soldier with a soldier’s way and he doubted not when you became his bride you would become used to his ways.’

  She put her hand in her father’s. ‘I am afraid,’ she said.

  Her father looked very sad and she went on: ‘But I must do my duty and I promise you, Father, that if it is necessary to marry this man, I will do it willingly for France.’

  ‘My good child,’ said the King and seemed about to burst into tears.

  She wanted to tell him that the prospect was not entirely displeasing to her. She wanted to experience marriage and she wanted her husband to be a strong man, a man who knew what he wanted, who would not be cursed by the grim shadow of madness. The victor of Agincourt, the man who claimed he would conquer and subdue France – yes, he seemed a worthy husband for a princess.

  It was a sad time. Negotiations had failed. Henry demanded too much. Louis the Dauphin, who had been so full of health and had tauntingly sent Henry the tennis balls, had died suddenly. He had never recovered from the shame of Agincourt, it was said. He had been so certain that he was going to bring Henry as his prisoner to Paris – or at least his head on a pike. After the outcome he had been plunged into melancholy, and one day his attendants went into his apartment and found him dead. Of a broken heart, they said.

  Prince Jean had become Dauphin and, when after a few months he was stricken by some mysterious disease which killed him within days, people began to say that there was a blight on France. This was a sign. The King mad, two of his sons dying within a short time of each other; the English triumphantly ranging all over the country. What could it mean?

  There was a new Dauphin, Charles. The Queen was accused of poisoning her sons; the King had lapsed into madness; there was plague and famine in Paris.

  What will happen next? Katherine asked herself.

  The first thing that happened was the arrival of the Queen in Paris. She came at once to Katherine.

  She was still so beautiful that Katherine could not help gazing at her in admiration. The Queen embraced her daughter and there were tears in her magnificent eyes.

  ‘My dearest child,’ she cried. Her dearest child – whom she had left to starve in the palace of St Pol, in whose welfare she had shown no interest until this moment! Katherine was taken aback but she felt the old fascination creeping over her and she remembered how as a child she had hidden in cramped positions hoping for a chance to get a glimpse of the glorious goddess.

  ‘Why are you here, my lady? I had thought you were at Tours.’

  ‘I have escaped. Yes, I have left my prison at Tours. I am needed here and my great concern is your future . . . and that of France. For they are one and the same. You can save France, Katherine.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You are beautiful. You take after me, dear child.’

  ‘Oh no, no. I could never be like you.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Still you have beauty and that is always a good thing to have. I’ll swear that when he sees you he will find you irresistible. He was a wild young man in his youth. Always fond of women. Oh yes, he will find he must have you. It is our way out of this dismal state which would never have happened if I had not been shut away . . . if Louis had never died . . . Never mind, Katherine. You and I are going to save France.’

  ‘How, my lady?’

  ‘First I want a picture painted of you. I want him to see that lovely face . . . it is just the shape of mine; the large dark eyes. Yes, it will mean a good deal when he sees your portrait.’

  ‘I wish I was not to be handed to him as part of a treaty.’

  The Queen sighed. ‘It is something we of royal blood must be reconciled to, Katherine. Think, you will be Queen of England and there will be an end to these senseless wars.’

  ‘What if they send you back to Tours?’

  ‘I have a strong ally,’ she said. ‘Burgundy is with me now.’

  Burgundy! Orléans! It mattered not to her which it was. What she wanted was alliance with the one who could bring her power.

  Rouen was about to fall into his hands. He could not fail. France was crumbling. This was the time to press home his advantages.

  Poor mad Charles would have to give in; it was a stroke of good fortune for Henry that Dauphin Louis had died – although he had hoped to get even with him for that tennis ball insult. And then Jean. Such events were invaluable for striking terror into a nation.

  They saw God’s displeased hand in this.

  God was on the side of England. It had been obvious at Agincourt when a small English army had been so completely victorious.

  While he was in camp before Rouen calculating that before another day had passed the town would be his, messengers arrived from the Court of France.

  They had something for him. A portrait.

  Eagerly he scanned it. She was young and beautiful and she had a look of Isabella. Isabella had been his first love and he had never quite forgotten her. Perhaps she was not as beautiful as he had imagined her; but he remembered first seeing her and most of all he remembered her devotion to Richard. He wanted someone like that, someone to love him, to adore him, to remain faithful throughout his life.

  Katherine of France looked very like her
sister. The same dark eyes, the oval-shaped face, the masses of dark hair and the resolute set of the lips.

  I’ll have her, he thought. Before long she shall be my wife.

  Rouen had fallen; the King was at Melun. Something had to be done.

  A meeting was arranged between the Queen and her daughter with Henry. It was to take place at Pontoise.

  On the banks of the river tents and pavilions had been set up. They were as elegant as the French could make them – in blue and green velvet ornamented with gold. It was a brilliant occasion and in the royal barge richly decorated with the fleur de lys Katherine came with her mother and the Duke of Burgundy. Her father was unable to accompany them because of another spell of madness.

  Katherine was led into the most, richly decorated of the pavilions and very soon there were shouts to proclaim the arrival of the King of England.

  Henry was accompanied by his two brothers, Clarence and Gloucester, and a thousand men at arms and as he stepped into the tent Katherine’s eyes were fixed on him and her heart beat fast with excitement.

  Henry came forward and first bowed to the Queen and then kissed her. Then he turned to Katherine. Her lips parted; and she was smiling; and he was smiling at her. He laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her lips.

  It was unceremonious but she was delighted; and so was he.

  She wished that they were alone and she could talk to him.

  But this was not the time.

  She was seated between her mother and the Duke of Burgundy and Henry sat opposite with a brother on either side of him. She was gratified to notice that during the whole of the proceedings Henry did not take his eyes from her.

  The conference was over all too soon for Katherine and when it had broken up no definite arrangements had been made.

  There must be another conference, said her mother.

  ‘It is clear to me that the King has fallen in love with my daughter,’ she added with pride.

  But Henry’s passion was not so great that he was going to give away any of his demands. They were excessive.

  ‘We are not yet beaten,’ said Burgundy.

  There was another meeting at Pontoise. ‘This time,’ said the Queen, ‘Katherine shall not go with us.’

  Henry was clearly disappointed but as adamant as ever and the conference ended in deadlock.

  Henry was sure that they must meet his demands. ‘We will wait a few days,’ he said to his brother. ‘They willgive way.’

  He was disconcerted when he saw the pavilions being removed which was a sign that the French had nothing more to say.

  He sought one more interview with the Duke of Burgundy.

  ‘I tell you this,’ he cried, ‘we will have the daughter of the King of France or we will drive the King out of his country . . . and you too, my lord of Burgundy.’

  ‘You may threaten to do so,’ was the cool reply, ‘but before you have succeeded in driving me out of my country you will be very exhausted.’

  Katherine felt deflated. She was sure he had wanted her. And yet he had let her go.

  Perhaps she would never see him again.

  The war continued. Henry was almost at the gates of Paris. There was nothing for the French to do but sue for peace.

  Messages from Burgundy and the Queen of France were delivered to Henry’s camp. Would he agree to another meeting?

  His answer was: No. I trust none of you except the Princess Katherine. If I treat with any of you it would only be with her.

  This was astounding. But then Henry had always been unconventional.

  ‘There is nothing for us to do,’ said the Queen. ‘We have to give way to him. He must have Katherine.’

  She sent for her daughter.

  ‘The King of England is demanding your hand. You are smiling. It seems to please you.’

  ‘I liked him well,’ said Katherine, ‘and it is time I married.’

  The Queen laughed. ‘I think you may resemble me in more ways than one. Write a note to him. Tell him how you long to speak with him. Our position is desperate. He will be in Paris soon if we do not stop him. But he must not come in war.’

  Katherine sat down as bidden and wrote a note to him. She had greatly regretted not seeing him for so long for their brief meeting in the pavilion at Pontoise had given her the desire to see him more than anything in the world.

  It was a bold letter for a princess to write, but she was dealing with a bold man.

  ‘He will want more than Katherine’s hand,’ said Burgundy.

  The terms would be harsh but they must accept them. Katherine’s dowry would be the crown of France after the death of her father. The King of England should on the marriage become Regent of France.

  Henry was overjoyed. It seemed that his goal was reached.

  When Katherine was brought to his tent he unceremoniously swept her into his arms.

  ‘My lord, my lord,’ she protested but she was smiling contentedly.

  ‘At last,’ he cried. ‘I have dreamed of you, Katherine. A pox on these people who have kept us apart so long.’

  She was no longer the young girl Isabella had been, but how she reminded him of her. Isabella had died at twenty-two years of age, poor sad Isabella; and after all the delays Katherine herself was nineteen years old.

  ‘I swore I’d have you the minute I first met you in the tent at Pontoise,’ he told her.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I hoped it too.’

  ‘Katherine . . . Katherine . . . what a lot of battles I had to fight to get you!’

  ‘I trust you will consider the fight worthwhile, my lord.’

  They were delighted with each other. He was thirty-three years old. Not a young man any more.

  ‘By God’s truth!’ he cried. ‘I have a lot to make up for.’

  In the church of Notre Dame in the town of Troyes Henry with the Queen and Katherine were present at the signing of the treaty. Henry looked magnificent in burnished armour and Katherine was now deeply in love with him. The King of France was unable to be present, but that was so frequent an occurrence that his absence was scarcely noticed. There on the high altar France was surrendered to Henry of England.

  Then the pair were betrothed and Henry solemnly placed a priceless ring on Katherine’s finger. He insisted that she now be in his care, for he did not trust the French and in view of everything they had surrendered he felt that even if those who had made the bargain adhered to it there might well be some rebellious faction which would try to take his well-earned spoils from him.

  He insisted that the wedding should not be long delayed.

  It was a glorious June day when in the church at Troyes he and Katherine were married. There was universal rejoicing because all saw in the marriage an end of the war which had tormented the people for so long.

  It had ended as honourably for France as could be hoped for it did not seem quite so humiliating to surrender to the husband of their Princess as it would to a stranger.

  Henry was determined to do honour to his bride. He had ordered that the most sumptuous preparations should be made.

  The French watched in amazement. Their own preparations were grand but more restrained. More elegant was their verdict but at the same time they admired the ostentation of the English.

  ‘It would seem that he is the King of the whole world,’ was the comment.

  So Katherine was his. They held hands and he smiled at her with a passionate intensity. She was delighted. She did not resemble Marie. She liked what she saw in her lover’s eyes.

  The Archbishop went through the ceremony of blessing the marriage bed; and there was the ceremonial putting to bed. There was a procession to the bedside and refreshment was brought to the happy pair. They drank the wine and soup according to the old French custom; and in due course they were alone.

  ‘This is the moment for which I have longed since I first set eyes on you,’ said Henry.

  And Katherine was content.

  Chapter XV


  DEATH OF THE CONQUEROR

  Katherine lay at Windsor, awaiting the birth of her child. The King of course was still at war. The marriage had not brought the peace all had prayed for. The new Dauphin perhaps could not be expected to relinquish his rights and determined to stand against the treaty. Moreover it was hardly likely that all Frenchmen would calmly stand by and see their land handed over to the English even though their mad King was to retain his title until he died.

  So Henry was now in France awaiting the news of the birth of their child.

  She was happy. She was meant to be a wife. She and Henry were well matched. She laughed to hear of the adventures he had had in his youth when everyone thought it would be disaster when he came to the throne. He was a man of passionate desires – whether it was in the bedchamber or the battlefield. He was a man who could become obsessed by an ideal; to her he was a conquering hero. She did not care that he had subdued her father and her country. She regarded her brother, the Dauphin, as an enemy because he was Henry’s.

  Thus had Henry claimed her as his own and they were both delighted with the marriage.

  He had given her a magnificent coronation and she had been crowned in Westminster Abbey by Archbishop Chicheley on a cold February day. The banquet that followed was the most sumptuous that had ever been served in the great hall at Westminster.

  Henry was determined to do her honour.

  And soon afterwards to the delight of them both she had become pregnant.

  Her baby was to be born in December.

  ‘You must be with me when our baby comes into the world,’ she told Henry; but he laughed at her and she knew that if he felt it necessary to go into battle even she could not detain him.

  Conquest was his life. He was a great lover but a soldier first. The prosecution of a war meant more to him than anything else. Her kinswoman Joanna who had been Queen to Henry’s father was still imprisoned in Pevensey.

  Henry believed in witchcraft and he told her that Joanna had practised it against him. He only half believed it to be so for he had always liked his stepmother until he needed her money to help him to make war.