Passage to Pontefract

by Jean Plaidy

  Instead of that here was Catherine. Tall, slender, about eighteen years of age – abundant hair with more than a hint of red in it, long greenish eyes fringed with lashes the blackness of which contrasted arrestingly with her white skin. The short nose was provocative and the full lips suggested a certain sensuality. Quite a disturbing young woman.

  Blanche hesitated. She felt a little bewildered simply because the girl was so different from what she had been imagining her to be.

  Catherine told her in a charming cultured voice that she had spent some six years in the convent at Sheppey.

  ‘The Queen arranged for me to go there,’ she said. ‘She has been very good to my family.’ Blanche bowed her head in acknowledgement of the Queen’s goodness.

  ‘My mother was French and my sister and I lived with her in Picardy while my father was at the wars. My father was herald to King Edward and knighted by him for bravery on the field.’

  ‘The Queen has told me something of this. He died, did he not?’

  ‘He was killed on the battlefield … fighting for King Edward.’

  The girl lifted her head high. She was one who would not wish for charity. Doubtless she thought any service the Queen had given her and her sister had been earned with their father’s life.

  ‘The plague struck our household,’ went on Catherine, ‘and only my sister and I survived. We were brought to England and taken to the Queen. I was very ill and none thought I should survive so I was sent to the convent to be nursed by the nuns and my sister Philippa was found a place in the Queen’s household.’

  ‘And when you left the convent?’

  ‘I came to see my sister and Sir Hugh Swynford was at Court. He saw me … and very soon we were married.’

  ‘So you made a good match, Lady Swynford.’

  ‘It was called so, my lady.’

  ‘And you want to leave your country home and come to Court?’

  ‘My husband is in France serving the King. Our estate is very small and we have few retainers. Yes, my lady, I do wish to leave the country and come to Court.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Blanche. ‘I will send for the children and you shall see how you like them … and they like you.’

  She sat still, with great dignity, confident that the children would like her.

  They came into the room – Philippa eight years old and very much aware that she was the eldest; Elizabeth four years younger but already showing signs of a somewhat tempestuous nature and Henry who was not yet two years old in the charge of his nurse.

  ‘My dears,’ said Blanche to the two girls, ‘this is Lady Swynford who would like to be your governess.’

  Elizabeth ran forward and stood looking up at Catherine. Philippa remained still watching her silently.

  Catherine held out her hand. Elizabeth took it. Then Catherine knelt so that her face was on a level with the little girl’s.

  ‘I hope you will like me well enough,’ said Catherine.

  Philippa came forward and took her sister’s hand.

  ‘I like her,’ said Elizabeth.

  Philippa said nothing but there was approval in her silence.

  Then young Henry finding that he was not the centre of attraction made them all aware of his displeasure in his usual lusty fashion.

  ‘He is a spoilt boy,’ said Philippa to Catherine.

  Catherine went to Henry and picked him up in her arms.

  They looked steadily at each other and then Henry’s face broke into a beautiful smile.

  It was clear that he, like his sisters, had taken a fancy to the beautiful new governess.

  Catherine Swynford is an enchantress, thought Blanche.

  There was bad news from Bordeaux. The health of the Black Prince so seriously affected at the battle of Nájara, far from improving, was steadily growing worse. Moreover Pedro of Castile had shown himself to be a dishonourable ally. He had kept none of his promises.

  Edward had remained in Valladolid for some weeks during the hottest of the weather while he was waiting for the payment due to him for coming to Pedro’s aid, but Pedro had made constant excuses. Dysentery had struck the army and many had died of it. The Prince himself had been badly affected and some had even suggested that Pedro might have bribed one of his spies to poison him. Pedro’s reputation being what it was, this seemed a possibility.

  The fact was that it had been a mistake to help Pedro back to his throne for he was a worthless ally and it would have been better to have left his bastard brother in control.

  Because of his health Edward needed his brother’s help. He wanted John to come to France for he feared that Charles of France would take advantage of the situation so John must make preparations to come out at once.

  John consulted with his father. The King was showing signs of his age. He had never recovered from the shock of Lionel’s death and he was worried about reports of Edward’s health. He was tormented too by Alice Perrers for while he deplored his infidelity to the Queen he could not resist Alice.

  ‘You must leave us, John,’ said the King. ‘Edward needs you. I should like you to tell me exactly how he is. I fear Joan is over anxious. She has always seen Edward so strong and healthy. She is afraid because he has this unfortunate illness. It will pass, I feel sure. But see for yourself, John, and tell me the truth. Alas, my son, you must once more leave your sweet wife. I know what it means to be torn from the side of one’s wife and children …’

  Poor old man, thought John, he was over anxious to tell people what a good husband he was now that he was so no longer.

  ‘I will prepare at once to leave for Bordeaux,’ he said. ‘And rest assured, I will let you know exactly how I find things there.’

  He sought out Blanche. She would be sad because of the coming parting, but she would understand, of course, that it must be so.

  Her women told him that she was with the Queen.

  Ah yes, he thought. Poor mother. She could not last long now. Every time he saw her he was aware of the change in her. She had lost the healthy rosy colour which had been with her all her life until the last year or so. Now there was an unhealthy yellowish tinge to her skin; and the dropsy was growing to such an extent that she could scarcely move at all.

  He went to the nursery. He hated to say goodbye to his children. It gave him such complete joy to gloat over the sturdy Henry. What a little man he was already! Just such another as I was, thought John. His eyes taking in everything, his hands eager to grasp all within his reach. My son. What is in store for you? I wonder. Could it be … a crown?

  There was a young woman in the nursery. She turned, startled, as he entered.

  The children ran to him; Philippa giving a grave curtsey, Elizabeth trying to do the same and abandoning the effort to catch at his knees. Henry was not to be outdone. He staggered towards his father.

  ‘My dearest daughters … my little son …’ He embraced them and all the time he was aware of the young woman watching him.

  Holding the children against him, he looked over their heads to her.

  She swept a curtsey to the floor. She remained there for a few seconds, gracefully poised with her dark red skirts about her. He noticed the bodice laced across a rather full bosom; her thick red hair hung in plaits one of which fell over her shoulder. The brilliant green eyes edged with incredibly dark lashes regarded him with interest. He felt a great excitement grip him.

  He signed to her to rise and come forward.

  Now he could see that she was more startling when close. Her skin was soft and white as milk – a deep contrast to the flaming hair and the black eyelashes, green eyes and red lips.

  ‘You are …’ he began.

  Philippa said shrilly: ‘She is Catherine … our new governess. Our father is a great great lord, Catherine.’

  Elizabeth said: ‘Yes, a great great lord, greater than the King.’

  ‘Hush hush,’ said John smiling. ‘You see my daughters have a high opinion of me. I believe the Duchess mentioned you.�
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  ‘I am Catherine Swynford, my lord. My husband is in your service.’

  ‘Swynford,’ he murmured. And he thought: That oaf. And this glorious creature. He went on: ‘Sir Hugh. Yes, he has served with me. He is in France now, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. He is in France.’

  ‘And you are here to care for my children. I am pleased at that, Lady Swynford.’

  She bowed her head, and when she raised it her eyes were brilliant. It was almost as though some message passed between them.

  He turned to the children, but he hardly noticed them. He was so deeply aware of her.

  He left the nursery because he felt a need to get away.

  He went to his apartments and said that he would be alone until the Duchess returned from her visit to the Queen.

  He kept thinking of the governess. Catherine Swynford, he murmured. Ridiculous name. And married to Hugh! He supposed he was worthy enough but he was uncouth and she … she was a magnificent creature, there was no question of that.

  It was absurd to have allowed her to make such an impression on him. Had he not seen attractive women in his life before! But never one quite like this woman. What was it? Beauty certainly. But he had known many beautiful women. Many would say she was not as beautiful as Blanche his wife. Blanche was a poet’s beauty. Young Chaucer was aware of that. Aloof, to be admired from afar. Not so this Catherine Swynford. One would not wish to remain far from her. There must be an urge in all men when they beheld her to take her … to possess her … even those who were most satisfactorily married …

  This was ridiculous. He had not felt like this before. He was not by nature a promiscuous man. And yet in the presence of the governess he had felt an almost irresistible urge to throw aside those standards to which, since his marriage to Blanche, he had strictly adhered.

  When Blanche came into the apartment, he rose quickly, took her hands and held her in his arms. He was reminded momentarily of his father playing the uxorious husband after one of his sessions with Alice Perrers.

  ‘My dearest,’ he said, ‘what is it? You look sad.’

  ‘It is the Queen,’ she replied. ‘I fear she grows worse; every time I see her there is a change.’

  ‘If only they could find some cure.’

  ‘She is fretting … about the King …’

  ‘That horrible woman. How I hate her! I believe she flaunts her newly acquired jewels before my mother.’

  ‘And the Queen is too gentle, too eager not to hurt the King to complain about her.’

  John spoke fiercely against Alice Perrers. He had never hated her so much as at this moment.

  He led Blanche to a window seat and they sat there together, his arm about her. ‘I have to go away, Blanche.’

  She turned to him and buried her face against him.

  ‘I fear so, my love,’ he went on. ‘Edward needs me and my father thinks I should go.’

  Blanche said nothing.

  ‘Perhaps it will not be for long,’ he went on.

  ‘You will be fighting.’

  ‘There is always fighting. It is a man’s lot, it seems.’

  ‘When must you go?’

  ‘As soon as I am prepared.’

  She was silent and he said slowly: ‘I went to the nursery and saw the new governess.’

  ‘What thought you of her?’

  ‘That the children looked well and as full of high spirits as ever.’

  ‘They are in good health, I thank God. But I meant what thought you of Catherine Swynford?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘You do not like her?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘I am not sure. I had not thought she would be so young.’

  ‘She is serious minded.’

  ‘I was thinking that Swynford’s wife would be different. When he comes back to England she could be sent back to the country, I suppose.’

  ‘I am sorry you do not like her. The children are fond of her already.’

  ‘I would not say I did not like her. I thought she might be … perhaps a little flighty.’

  ‘Men’s eyes follow her. She is good looking and … something more …’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

  ‘The Queen is pleased at the appointment. She remembers the girl’s father. Philippa Chaucer is her sister, you know.’

  ‘It is a pity she is not more like Philippa Chaucer.’

  ‘The children seem very fond of her. I notice they like pretty people around them. Henry is already devoted to her.’

  ‘I hope that is not an indication of events to come.’

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘I hope he will not be too obsessed with pretty women.’

  ‘I dare swear our son will be a normal man. In any case he is already fond of Catherine Swynford. Of course if you would like me to send her away …’

  ‘Oh no, no. Give the woman a chance. I cannot judge her. I was in the nursery only for a few minutes. We have to think of my departure. Would you like me to take letters from you to Joan?’

  He was glad to be alone, and although he tried to dismiss Catherine Swynford from his mind her face kept presenting itself to him.

  That night he dreamed that he awakened and saw her standing by his bed, her red hair loose and her red lips smiling. She came in beside him and he put his arms about her.

  She said in that dream: ‘This has to be. You know it, John of Gaunt and so do I, Catherine Swynford.’

  A disturbing dream and it showed clearly what effect she had had on him.

  He was almost glad that he was going away.

  Before he left there was more news from his brother.

  Pedro had become so unpopular in Castile where he was known as The Cruel that his half-brother, Henry of Trastamare, had been welcomed back by the people and when he had returned he had confronted Pedro and stabbed him to death.

  Nothing had been gained by the English from the battle of Nájara, that resounding victory which had seemed so glorious. Many English soldiers had died of dysentery and it seemed that the health of the Black Prince was impaired for ever; the money Pedro had promised to pay the English armies would never be paid now; Biscay which was to be the Prince’s reward for his help had not come into his hands and if he wanted it he would have to fight a fresh battle for it.

  It was disaster.

  And the King of France was rubbing his hands with glee.

  Yes, the Black Prince needed his brother John who must take his leave of his devoted wife, of his anxious father and his ailing mother.

  ‘I shall be back ere long,’ John promised Blanche. And he thought: I wonder if, when I return, Catherine Swynford will still be in the nurseries?

  The Queen knew that she was dying. Steadily over the last two years she had become more enfeebled. Her body was now so swollen with dropsy that it was a burden to her and she could feel no great sorrow at leaving a world which had lost its charm for her.

  As she lay in bed she thought of the past when she had been so happy. So vividly that it seemed like only yesterday did she recall the day Edward’s envoys had come to Hainault to choose a bride for him and how fearful she had been that they might select one of her sisters. And how they had laughed when he told her that he warned his ambassadors that it would be more than their lives were worth to bring him any but Philippa. So happy they had been, so much in love – a boy and a girl no more. And when they grew up, the love between them grew stronger and they had had a wonderful family to prove it to the world.

  Happy days – but past. So many of the children dead and herself nothing but a mass of unwanted flesh that encumbered her like a prison from which she longed to escape.

  Life was ironical. Some lived too long. Others were taken before they had had a chance to live at all. Oh my sweet Joanna, dying of plague in a foreign land. My dear Lionel who left us in the prime of his manhood. Mary and Margaret smitten down so suddenly. And all the little babies.

  Such tragedies! And yet such joys! That was
life; and none could escape what fate had in store be they kings or queens.

  There was little time left.

  She said to those about her bed: ‘It is time to send for the King.’

  He came at once, hurrying into her apartment and throwing himself on his knees by her bed. Edward, her King. Instead of the ageing man he had become, she saw the bright-eyed flaxen-haired boy, so handsome, so vital, a leader in every way.

  Oh it was sad that youth must fade, that ideals be lost, that will o’ the wisps must be pursued when the wise know they can only lead to danger. It was sad that lives must be spent in making war in hopeless causes.

  Oh my Edward, she thought, if only you had been content to be but King of England. Why did you have to fight these hopeless battles for a crown which could never be yours?

  But it was all over … for her. Death was calling her away. She had played her part in the drama. She must leave it to others to finish.

  ‘Philippa … my love … my Queen …’

  His voice seemed to be coming to her from over the years.

  She said: ‘We have been happy together, husband.’

  ‘Happy,’ he echoed. ‘So happy …’

  There were tears in his eyes, tears of remorse. She was dying. He might have remained faithful to the very end. Yet he had seen that witch Alice and had been tempted, and unable to resist.

  ‘Philippa,’ he murmured, ‘you must not go. You must not leave me. How can I live without you?’

  She smiled and did not answer him.

  Her youngest son, Thomas, had come to her bedside. Such a boy, she thought sadly. He will need his mother yet. He was only fourteen years old.

  ‘Edward,’ she said, ‘care for Thomas.’

  ‘I will care for our son, my dearest.’

  ‘I must speak to you, Edward. I have three requests.’

  ‘They shall be granted, dear lady. Only name them.’

  All she wanted was that he should see that her obligations were fulfilled – all the gifts and legacies for her servants paid.