“Forgive me, Kate. I have the manners of a rough soldier. I should know better.”
There was something endearing about him in such a mood. It was characteristic that he could see faults in himself and did not hesitate to admit them. If he were wrong, he never pretended to be right. He was like that with his men. It was one of the reasons why he had their complete loyalty.
He put his hand over mine and I clung to his.
“You understand me, Kate. I know your fondness for your father. Poor man. His is a sad fate. He will never be wholly sane, I fear; and I do not think he values his life greatly.”
“That is true,” I said. “In his frenzies he called for those about him to kill him.”
“On his passing I shall be crowned King of France and that has to come, Kate. Well, I want the people to realize the achievement of our armies. I want them to understand that we have become mighty and will be mightier still. I want them to see you beside me.”
“As part of the spoils you have brought home from France,” I murmured.
He laughed and swung me up in his arms. “There is no booty which has delighted me more.”
So there I was beside him, through those triumphant rides, listening to him as he talked to the people, eloquently rousing them to patriotism…making them see that it was imperative that they pay for the glory which was theirs.
It was wonderful to see the effect he had on them.
We visited every church on the route where he thanked God for His help in the past and reminded Him that it must not be withheld in the future.
Henry was deeply religious. He was indefatigable in his condemnation of the religious sect who called themselves the Lollards.
“Lollards?” I said. “What a strange name.”
“It comes from the German Lollen, I once heard,” he told me, “which means, ‘to sing.’ I suppose they earned their name because they are always singing hymns. John Wycliffe started it off. Writing…preaching heresies. There could have been a serious rising against us. Fortunately we discovered this in time.” He was silent, his brow furrowed. “A man I knew well at one time,” he went on after a pause, “it was in the days of my youth. John Oldcastle…he was the head of it. He was the last man I would have believed would have turned to religion. He changed. Men change. A crown changed me and these heresies changed him. And what we were, we are not today. But…it is in the past. But I am moved when I think of John Oldcastle. He was hung up and burned alive.”
I caught my breath in horror.
Henry nodded slowly and sat very quietly, staring into nothing.
Then he roused himself and said: “A man one has once been merry with…we drank together, laughed together…sported together…but we could not see into the future then. No…I cannot believe this of old John Oldcastle.” He stood up abruptly. “Life goes on,” he said. “I’ll pray for the old fellow tomorrow. Pray with me, Kate.”
I would indeed, I said: and I fancied all that evening he went on thinking of his onetime friend who had turned traitor through religion.
I could not forget the man. He had once been Henry’s friend and yet he had come to a terrible end. Henry had been fond of him once. How could he have allowed that to happen?
He might have been a traitor, yes, but surely he could have had a less horrific death? Henry could have stopped it—and he had not done so. He was ruthless. I had known that. He pursued his ends with unswerving determination. How else could he have achieved so much?
Into my love for him there crept that night a little fear. Our courtship had been brief. I had been enchanted by the genial conqueror. But how much did I know of Henry? He was a man who could allow an old close friend to die in such a terrible manner.
I knew that we must soon be parted. I had learned that would be the pattern of our lives. I must therefore give myself up to the pleasure of his company while it was there for me to enjoy, for how could I know, from day to day, from hour to hour, when it would be snatched away from me?
It was about this time that I made a wonderful discovery. I believed that I was with child, and that drove all other speculations, doubts and fears from my mind.
I had meant to wait until I was certain before I told Henry, but I could not keep the news to myself.
I had never seen him so delighted. I laughed and exulted to see his joy.
“I believe,” I said, “that something can be more important to you than a victorious battle.”
“Battles are won…or lost, but this is our child. Yours and mine, Kate…and England’s. Our little king. We shall call him Henry. Yes, he must be Henry after his father and grandfather. King Henry VI of England.”
“Henry, please do not be so sure that it will be a boy.”
“But of course it will be a boy. You do not think my firstborn could be anything else!”
“He’s mine too.”
He laughed out loud. “You were meant to be a mother of sons. And suppose…just suppose that this one is not a boy. The next will be…and the next…and the next …”
“Please, let there be one at a time. I am not even absolutely sure. I did not mean to tell you until I was …”
He lifted me up and danced around the apartment with me. Then suddenly he stopped, remembering the precious burden I carried within me. He put me down rather gingerly. “We must take care of our son, Kate,” he said gravely, “the utmost care.”
I often saw him watching me with a tender smile on his face. He was even more pleased with our marriage. I knew he was thinking what a big part it had played in his plans for France, and now it was successful in that all-important way. We had been married quite a short time and had not been together a great deal, but there were already signs of fruitfulness.
He was a very happy man.
We were in Yorkshire and Henry planned to go farther north. The going had been rough and I had seen him on one or two occasions cast anxious looks in my direction.
When we retired for the night, he was very serious. “You are tired, Kate,” he said.
“Not more than usual after a long day’s journey.”
“We must think of the child. I have to go on to the north, but you shall not come with me. We will find a suitable spot and there you will stay and rest for a while.”
“But, Henry, I want to be with you.”
“God bless you, Kate, and do you think I do not wish that too? But you are going to await my return. The way may be rough and I’ll not have you taking risks with the child. You will stay comfortable while I continue the journey. It will only be for a week or so. Then I shall return and find you refreshed and ready for the journey south.”
I felt a little melancholy. It was only for a week or so, he said, but I knew Henry. Something could happen which needed his presence…and it could be a long time before I saw him again.
I tried to protest, but he was adamant. In fact, he was so accustomed to having his orders obeyed without question that it did not occur to him to take my objections seriously. I knew it was no use protesting; and I was not yet entirely certain that I was going to have a child.
The next morning we set out.
“We are not far from my castle of Pontefract,” said Henry. “You shall stay there and wait for me.”
Pontefract! It was a castle I had heard spoken of with dread by my sister Isabelle.
When I saw it, I thought it was as I had imagined it when I had heard of Richard’s last days there.
As we rode toward it, I thought it was like a prison; but perhaps that was because I was thinking of Richard’s meeting his miserable and mysterious death within its walls.
It looked formidable—a fortress built on a rock. The walls were high and flanked by seven towers. There was a moat with a drawbridge which was lowered as we approached.
The castellan was waiting to pay homage to the King.
Food was prepared for us, and while we feasted in the great hall Henry explained to the castellan and his wife that I should be staying there
for a short while and the utmost care must be taken of me. I was in a delicate state and in need of rest. It was for this reason that I was not continuing with the King on his journey.
The place filled me with revulsion. I kept seeing Isabelle’s sad face when she had told me of the last days of her husband. And here I was…within those very walls. I wanted to get away.
I knew it was no use talking to Henry. His mind was made up, and in his thoughts he was already on his way, calling people to his side, assuring them how necessary it was, for the honor of England, to meet the heavy taxes that were essential to the success of his operations.
When I lay in my room, I fancied I could hear the cries of those who had suffered in this grim place. It was more than twenty years ago that Richard had died…and Isabelle herself was dead now.
I must not be fanciful. I must, as Henry said, try to rest here. There was the child to think of.
I was glad to have Guillemote with me, and Margaret and her daughter Jane were among my attendants. I found their presence particularly comforting; but I could not shake off this heavy pall of melancholy which seemed to be a part of this dismal castle.
I longed to be away. I was sure it would be far better for me to be riding through the countryside, perhaps a little exhausted at the end of the day, than here where sad memories were coming to me.
Yet the place had a fascination for me. Isabelle seemed to be with me; and when, on my first day, I learned that her second husband, the Duke of Orléans, was actually in Pontefract, she seemed nearer to me than ever. I knew that Orléans had been captured at Agincourt, but Henry had not mentioned, when he had told me I was to go to Pontefract, that Orléans was a prisoner there. Perhaps he had forgotten.
However, it was a shock for me to discover that we were under the same roof, and I felt that fate was playing some sinister trick, to bring Isabelle’s second husband to the very place where the first had died.
I used to wake in the night and put out a hand to touch Henry. Then I would remember that he had gone and where I was…in Pontefract Castle…and a certain terror would creep over me. I remember sitting up in bed and looking around the strange apartment for a few seconds before remembering. Then it came to me that somewhere not far away Richard had been incarcerated…a prisoner…and waking as I had, listening for a step close by, wondering if an assassin was lurking in a dark corner…And what had happened? Had his end been like that?
There were ghosts in this place. I knew it. I could sense that terrible things had happened here.
I could hear Isabelle’s voice: “I do not know what happened at Pontefract. Some say he was murdered…slashed to death by Bolingbroke’s men; some say they starved him to death; others that he starved himself. How can I know, Katherine? Perhaps one day I will.”
And somewhere here in this castle was Orléans, the husband who had made Isabelle happy as she had thought she would never be after the tragedy of her first marriage.
It was small wonder that I could not rest happily in Pontefract. I should have told Henry that I would be unhappy here. Would he have understood? No. He was too practical perhaps. And in any case he would be thinking ahead to his next project: money to get to France. Rebels to subdue. There would always be rebels in a conquered country. I kept thinking of his old friend John Oldcastle…hanging over the fire. And he had been an old friend. Henry could have stopped it. But the man was a heretic; he had planned rebellion. Did Henry never think of those old days? This John Oldcastle must have been one of those who had accompanied him on his tavern adventures. I wondered what those adventures had involved. I believed that on one occasion Henry had become caught up with the law.
I began to ask myself, what did I know of Henry? He loved me, I was sure. I was good-looking…for a princess. I was attracted by him. I was about to bear his child. I had been all that a conqueror could have asked for.
I knew the King, but what did I know of the man?
Those were uncomfortable days at Pontefract for within those evil walls I was prone to introspection. Henry should never have left me there.
I had a compulsion to wander around the castle. I liked to talk to the men-at-arms. I found them courteous and respectful. Surely they would not dare be otherwise to Henry’s Queen; but I found them friendly, too.
I thought I detected in one of them a certain sadness. He was older than the others. I approached him once when he was alone and I boldly asked him how long he had been in the castle.
“All my life, my lady. I was born here. My father was a guard before me. It’s a tradition in the family, you might say.”
“Were you here when…King Richard …?”
He looked wary, but he nodded.
“That was a long time ago, my lady. I was a young man then.”
“Could you show me where he was lodged?”
He hesitated for a moment. I said: “I should like to see it. My sister was his wife.”
“Yes, my lady, the Little Queen. I hear she was a very beautiful young lady.”
“She was. She is dead now.”
He crossed himself and murmured something like “God rest her soul.”
“Could you then …?”
“People don’t go there much now.”
“I should like to.”
He hesitated for one more moment. I wondered whether it was against orders. But I was the Queen. I could not be refused.
I stepped into the small room. It looked dark and eerie.
“So this is where he lived…and died. Did you see him?”
“I was young then. It wasn’t talked of in the castle. You see this pillar here…from the floor to the roof? You see these notches in it? I heard it said that these were made by the axes of his murderers as he fled around it. But who’s to say whether that be true?”
“Did you believe it?”
He was cautious. He was doubtless remembering that I was the King’s wife and that the King was the son of that man who had taken the crown from Richard.
“There’s some said that he starved himself to death,” he said. “Who’s to know? Others said he was starved by them. Some say he escaped from Pomfret.”
Pomfret? I was puzzled for the moment; then I remembered that Pomfret was another name for Pontefract. I had heard that the man who had built it had named it after Pomfret, a town in Normandy which the place resembled.
“Escaped?” I said.
“Some said he reached Scotland and was befriended by the Scots King and lived in Scotland for many years.”
“Do you believe that?” I asked.
“No, my lady. He died in this room.”
“Murdered?”
“Hacked or starved to death. “Tis murder, every way you look at it.”
“You feel it here…do you?” I asked, and then wished that I had not expressed such a fanciful thought.
But the man nodded.
I had another experience while I was at Pontefract. I talked with the Duke of Orléans.
I said that he was my brother-in-law and I wished to see him. Our hosts were unsure whether my wish should be granted. But they remembered that I was Queen of England, and if Henry had not wished me to see Orléans, either he would not have brought me to Pontefract or he would have given orders that I was not to see him.
So here was another sad reminder of Isabelle.
Charles of Orléans looked older than when I had last seen him. Captivity was not as irksome to him as it might have been to some people. He was a poet rather than a warrior and I had always fancied that he would rather have lived in peaceful obscurity than in the blaze of one near the throne.
I was taken to his apartments in the castle. They were very comfortable, and it was obvious that he was treated in accordance with his rank. He was a prisoner only in the fact that he was not able to leave the castle without guards.
He embraced me warmly.
“I hear what goes on now and then,” he said. “Our poor country is in a sorry state. We have been ignobly d
efeated, and because of that…I am here, and you also.”
“Yes. The war has had a great effect on our lives. Tell me, Charles, are you treated well?”
“I do not complain.”
“What do you do here?”
“I am allowed to walk. Sometimes I ride, if there are enough guards available to accompany me. I write …”
“Your poetry, of course.”
“It satisfies me. You understand, Katherine?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I brood a great deal. I pray for forgiveness.”
“For the death of Burgundy?”
“I never wanted that, Katherine.”
“I know.”
“All this strife within. It was certain to lead to ruin. I remember those days with Isabelle. They were the happiest of my life.”
“She was happy with you, Charles.”
“I know. That makes it all the more sad. If only she had lived …”
“Then you would not have married again.”
“I did not want to. Armagnac decided…and it had to be. My life ever after has been like something out of a nightmare…until I was captured at Agincourt. Sometimes I wished I had gone the way of so many others.”
“No, Charles, you must not say that.”
“And then…Isabelle is dead…if only she had lived!”
“She would be mourning now…separated from you as she would be. At least she did not have to suffer that.”
We talked of Isabelle. He read some of his poetry to me and when he did so his face was transfigured with a certain contentment; and I believed that he was happier in his prison than he had been as the tool of the ambitious Armagnacs.
It was long since Isabelle had died, but I felt her close to me during those days in tragic Pontefract.
I was relieved and delighted when Henry came riding into the castle.
He kissed me fondly. I was now sure that I was pregnant and I told him this, to his great delight.
“Did the people respond as you wished to your plans for taxes?” I asked.
“To a man…and woman,” he replied jubilantly.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 07] Page 12
