The Queen's Secret

by Jean Plaidy

  “But he has gone …”

  “I regret to say that the actions of the Duke have been…quite dangerous…to me…to the whole country…and perhaps in particular to his brother the Duke of Bedford who is striving to consolidate the great victories won for England by the late King.”

  “I have heard of this,” I said, great relief sweeping over me, for I realized he had not come to talk of my affairs. I had been in terrible fear that he might have come because he had heard something about Owen and me.

  “I have done all in my power to stop his leaving for the Continent,” went on the Bishop, “but I have not been successful in doing so.”

  I was wondering why he should be telling me all this, for I was sure that, like most of his kind, he would think the opinion of a woman not worth having.

  He went on: “The Duke of Gloucester has taken Hainault. There was no opposition. The Duke of Brabant was unable to prevent this. Hainault has now recognized Gloucester as its ruler.”

  “Then there will be no fighting,” I said.

  He looked at me with faint contempt. “The Duke of Burgundy will certainly not allow this to pass unchallenged. He is hurrying to the assistance of his kinsman. You misunderstand the gravity of this situation. In order to go to Brabant’s assistance it was necessary for Burgundy to conclude a truce with France. You can guess what that means.”

  “The English are losing their ally.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he said: “Now I come to the point of my visit. The Duke of Burgundy has challenged the Duke of Gloucester to single combat…a duel between the two of them to settle the dispute.”

  “Surely not!”

  “But indeed it is so, and the Duke of Gloucester has accepted the challenge. I know it seems incredible, but it is so. That duel must not take place. If it does, one or the other will be killed. You can guess the consequences. If Gloucester kills Burgundy, the Burgundians will be in revolt against him; and if Burgundy kills Gloucester, it will be the same from the other side. One thing is certain: it will be the end of the alliance between Burgundy and England. And that alliance is of the greatest importance to our success in France.”

  “I realize that.”

  “This duel must be stopped. And you may help in some small way…but we cannot afford to neglect any means…however small…to bring an end to this folly.”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Philip of Burgundy is married to your sister. He is devoted to her and she to him. If she could be persuaded to beg him not to continue with this ridiculous gesture, it could be a help.”

  “It is long since I saw my sister.”

  “Nevertheless, she is your sister. What we wish you to do is write to her…tell her exactly what this would mean…a rift between us…further trouble for France…the prolonging of the war. You could help perhaps.”

  “Do you think the great Duke of Burgundy would listen to me?”

  “No. But he might listen to his wife.”

  “I see.”

  “We are asking the Queen, your mother, to do her best in the matter,” he went on. “We are determined to try anything…just anything…to prevent this disaster. Write immediately. I will take your letter and see that it is delivered to your sister by special courier. You must do this for the sake of your son, the King.”

  Writing to Michelle was an emotional experience. I could only see her as the poor frightened little girl in the Hôtel de St.-Paul. Although she had been slightly older than I, I had always felt I had to protect her. Our sister Marie had had her unfaltering faith to sustain her. Poor little Michelle had suffered with the rest of us, but she had seemed weaker than I. She always seemed to be colder and more hungry. It was difficult to imagine that shivering little mite as the Duchess of Burgundy.

  She had always seemed rather simple, less able to cope with our desperate situation than the rest of us. Yet she had married the great Duke and he cared for her. Even when her brother had been involved with the men who had murdered his father, he had not turned against her.

  He must truly love her, and because of that these men, who made it their business to know what was going on, thought she could influence him.

  I wrote to her, trying to eliminate from my mind the image of that shivering little girl as I did so. What could I say. “Dear Michelle, you are the Duchess of Burgundy, I am the Queen of England…my little son is King and now I am the Queen Mother. I have lost my husband. Do not lose yours. Please try to stop this duel. Persuade your husband that it is not worthwhile. Beg him not to risk his life. You must not become a widow…as I have.”

  I went on in that strain. And all the time I was thinking of those days when my father was alive and we children were living in poverty and neglect while our mother sported with her lovers.

  And what of her? What would she write to Michelle? We had all hated her. No. No, hatred was too strong a word. We had all feared her, and we had always known that no good would come to us through her.

  The Bishop was pleased with my efforts; he took my letter and rode off.

  · · ·

  Guillemote came to me one day and said: “The Duke of Gloucester is back in England.”

  “Oh,” I replied. “What of his duel with the Duke of Burgundy?”

  “People say that he has come back to prepare for it. They are also saying that he is heartily sick of the whole affair. He thought he could take Jacqueline’s possessions easily…and it seemed that he might but for Burgundy. But Burgundy will take them from him. It looks as though the Duke of Gloucester is getting away from it all and leaving Jacqueline to face Burgundy alone.”

  “How can he do that? It is so dishonorable.”

  “I don’t think the Duke would give much thought to that. The rumor is that he is tired of Jacqueline and greatly enamored of one of the ladies who went out with Jacqueline from England…if lady she can be called.”

  “You have been listening to gossip, Guillemote.”

  “How can one learn what is going on if one does not listen to gossip? We learn more from that than from what they call news. From that one hears of victories which turn out to be defeats…winning today…losing tomorrow. No, it is the gossip in which the real news is wrapped up. Believe me.”

  “I do believe you, Guillemote, and what is this news about the Duke’s new friend?”

  “A voluptuous piece, by all accounts. Irresistible…saucy…luscious…everything that would appeal to His Grace’s jaded tastes…which poor Jacqueline failed to do.”

  “Who is this charmer?”

  “Lady Eleanor Cobham…daughter of Lord Cobham.”

  “I have heard of her.”

  “And doubtless you will hear more now. They say the Duke is so enamored of her that he has lost his love for Hainault, Zealand and the rest.”

  “And poor Jacqueline I am sorry for her.”

  “In any case she will be rid of the Duke.”

  “What will happen to her?”

  “Burgundy will overrun the place in a very short time, I am sure. Doubtless she will be his prisoner. He might send her back to Brabant.”

  “And what of this duel?”

  Guillemote shrugged her shoulders. “I have heard nothing of that,” she said.

  “It will be rather pointless when Burgundy is in possession. Oh, how I wish that he had stayed in Hainault.”

  She looked at me sagely and nodded.

  I had heard from Michelle. She had been pleased to get a letter from me.

  It brought back so many memories, she wrote. “How different our lives are now. Who would have thought when we were living as we did in the Hôtel de St.-Paul that we should come to this? I have been happy since my marriage. I believe you were happy in yours. It was so tragic when it ended. I have spoken to the Duke, my husband. I have pleaded with him. He always listens to me. He is very tender. I am hoping he will not fight this duel. I am praying for it …”

  I could not believe that Gloucester would want to fight
. Of course, he had had to accept the challenge. It would have been against his nature not to. People might have thought he was afraid. He must always present that image of the dashing, reckless, devil-may-care charmer. Strangely enough, people accepted it. They closed their eyes to his follies. They thought it was noble and chivalrous to go to fight for his wife’s possessions, to win back for her all that she had lost. They did not see that he was winning back those lands—not for her—but for himself.

  The people were deceived. They loved him. They would cheer him in the streets, they would welcome him back. They preferred him to the Bishop of Winchester who, in spite of his arrogance and avarice, had the good of the country at heart. No, the people liked the swashbuckling, licentious Duke far better than the serious-minded priest.

  The Bishop did have the courtesy to call on me again.

  “I am pleased to tell you,” he said, “that our efforts were successful. I am sure that the letter you wrote to your sister helped; and your mother, too, played her part. The duel would have been a disaster. In the end, the Pope forbade it. But the Duke of Burgundy has been moved by the entreaties of his wife. So we can be grateful for this mercy.”

  I said: “But the friendship between England and Burgundy?”

  “It has been considerably impaired, but the Duke of Bedford is very clever. His wife is the Duke’s sister, which makes a bond. We must hope to repair the damage.”

  “And the Duke of Gloucester is now in England …”

  “I very much doubt he will want to venture to Hainault again.”

  “But his wife will need help.”

  The Bishop shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

  I felt very uneasy. If the Duke of Gloucester had abandoned hope of ruling Hainault, then he would seek power in England. That alarmed me not a little.

  They were uneasy days. Gloucester’s health had suffered. How he had thought he could stand up to a duel with the Duke of Burgundy, I cannot imagine. I think a great deal of his defiance was bluster.

  I should have been grateful, I supposed, that he seemed to become immediately absorbed in his quarrel with Henry Beaufort, for it would turn his attention from my son. How he and Henry Beaufort hated each other! I suppose it was largely because their temperaments were so different, and Beaufort, with his strong sense of duty to the State, was appalled by Gloucester’s self-interest.

  The people of London took up the quarrel—some siding with Gloucester, others with Beaufort. There were even riots in the capital between the two factions. The feud became so fierce that widespread civil unrest was feared. This became so alarming that emissaries were sent to the Duke of Bedford, begging him to return to England, where his rule was needed as urgently as it could possibly be in France.

  I daresay the Duke of Bedford was a disillusioned man. Gloucester’s reckless acts were costing him the friendship of Burgundy. It could not have happened if Henry had lived. Henry would never have allowed it. Bedford would know that, but it must have been hard to realize where he had failed.

  I was greatly relieved when he arrived in England; and from that time peace returned. Gloucester and Beaufort were obliged to make a public show of reconciliation, and if it might not have been entirely genuine, it calmed the general unrest which had broken out among the supporters of both sides.

  Gloucester swore not to aggravate Burgundy further, but when the Duke of Bedford returned to France, where his presence was urgently needed, Gloucester sent Jacqueline the help she asked for.

  Meanwhile there were many rumors about his torrid affair with Eleanor Cobham, a very flamboyant and decidedly handsome woman who attracted attention wherever she went—especially when it was whispered that she dabbled in witchcraft. The Duke was said to be completely enthralled by her.

  Oddly enough, his profligate ways seemed to enhance his popularity; the more sullied his reputation became, the more the people cheered him. His once-handsome face was becoming bloated and he was beginning to look like the dissolute rake he was; but they continued to love him.

  Then came the day when I heard that the Pope had—very likely at the instigation of Burgundy—annulled Gloucester’s marriage to Jacqueline. I am sure that he breathed a sigh of relief. He could now forget his commitment to her—of which he had long grown weary—and devote himself entirely to the wiles of his fascinating mistress.

  Unfortunately Bedford had returned to France, taking Beaufort with him, and Gloucester slipped into his old role of Protecter of the Realm, which caused me qualms of uneasiness.

  While all this was happening, life had become very agreeable to me. I had my secret love which filled me with excitement and pleasure. The more I knew Owen, the more I realized how very much he meant to me. I could be deliriously happy, and the trials of England and Burgundy seemed very remote. In my happiness, I wondered how people could be so foolish as to involve themselves in making war.

  Love absorbed me. I had Owen and, with the help of my faithful ladies, who were delighted to see my contentment, I managed to live my secret life.

  Then there was Henry. No longer a baby, he was an adorable child—now five years old and a somewhat serious little boy. Already he was aware that he was apart from the other boys in his household. He was quite fond of Dame Alice Butler and he dearly loved Joan Astley; but he never forgot that I was his mother, and it was a great joy to me to see his pleasure when I visited him.

  This I was able to do fairly frequently. I must not interfere, of course, with their methods of upbringing, but I had long realized this and made no attempt to do so. He loved me as his mother; he had Dame Alice and Joan Astley, and there was Owen to comfort me when I felt sad, as I sometimes did after visiting my son.

  He was a strange child. He could change quickly. Sometimes he would seem a normal, fun-loving boy and then suddenly he would become serious, a little puzzled, perhaps faintly worried. When he rode out, I would sometimes be with him, for it was natural that as his mother I should be, and it satisfied the people to see us together. The people clearly loved him. He was very much aware of them. I had seen him touch the miniature crown on his head rather nervously now and then. I think it must have been a symbol to him. It was something of which at times he was proud and could at others fill him with apprehension.

  There were times when we were together and I would hold him to me. He would cling to me. Then he was like the baby I had known. He liked to hear stories of his early days. He would sit listening intently, holding my hand or sometimes clutching at my skirts as if he feared I would leave him. Then he was indeed like my little one. But when he was quiet and seemed a little anxious, I knew he was remembering he was the King.

  Dame Alice told me that he was good at his books but he did not excel as he should at outdoor games. She believed that he had little fancy for them.

  “It is well,” she said, “that there are boys of his age here. He can watch them. Some of them are very skillful…riding…archery and such like. But the King always prefers his books. It is a pity. He should have enthusiasm for both.”

  “We are all different,” I said, “and it is very important that he should do well at his lessons.”

  “A king must excel in all ways,” she said with a touch of severity.

  I used to talk to him about his father—the greatest warrior the world had ever known. He listened with a kind of awed anxiety.

  I said to him: “But there are better things than war, Henry. It is better for countries to live in peace with each other than go to war…killing…maiming each other. There are wonderful things in the world…books…music…pictures.”

  He was pleased with that. I knew that those about him constantly talked to him of Agincourt and Harfleur.

  He liked to hear about his ancestors, and the Earl of Warwick had given instructions to his tutors that he must be fully cognizant of the history of his country.

  I thought sometimes that they were forcing him out of his childhood too soon. It was true he was the King, but could they not let h
im forget that for a few years? Apparently not.

  I wondered what effect coming face-to-face with the people had on him. He certainly liked their applause and responded to it in a manner which delighted them; and youth is so appealing, particularly when it wears a crown.

  He said to me once: “They like me, do they not?”

  “It is clear that they do,” I replied.

  “Yes, but Dame Alice says it is the crown they are cheering, not me.”

  “Dame Alice may be right.”

  “Then why do they not carry the crown through the streets? Why do I have to be under it?”

  “The crown needs someone to wear it and it is the possession of the King.”

  “Then it must be the King they cheer as well as the crown.”

  I could see that my son was developing a logical mind.

  It brought home to me the fact that he was growing up, and I feared for him. I could not shut out of my mind the thought of Gloucester’s ambitious face.

  A message came that I might spend Christmas and the New Year with Henry at Eltham Palace. I was delighted. I would travel there with my household, and that would include Owen, so I could enjoy the festivities in the company of both my son and my lover.

  Henry had, that Whitsun, been knighted by his Uncle Bedford. It had been a solemn occasion, for after the ceremony he himself had knighted a few of his young companions.

  He had described the occasion to me at some length and I had been saddened a little because I felt more strongly than ever that they were forcing him to grow up before his time. How I wished that he could have enjoyed a little more of his childhood more simply with me and Guillemote…and Owen too.

  I was very pleased to see that Henry had quite a liking for Owen, who had taken great pains not to put himself forward. In view of the nature of our relationship, Owen felt a little embarrassed. I think he felt himself to be in the position of stepfather to the little King.

  It was in a state of happy expectation that we arrived at Eltham. I could not restrain my excitement as we came through the magnificent avenue of trees and saw the stone walls and lofty archways of the palace. We passed into a cobbled courtyard.