Lady of the Garter (The Plantagenets Book 4)

by Juliet Dymoke

  But when he slept she lay a long time, her arm under his shoulder, his head on her breast, not attempting to sleep herself but looking at his face, the brows drawn together even in sleep. His cheeks had flattened and there were lines running from nose to chin that had not been there before. Sweet Jesu, she prayed, I lost Tom – don't take Edward from me!

  The next day he had forgotten the hallucination and seemed better. He was even able to ride out with her, his hawk on his wrist, though after an hour of the sport he looked so weary she said she would like to return to their lodgings. He spent the afternoon with their eldest son whom he adored. Richard was a beautiful child but delicate, preferring to stay with his mother and the nurses, but Edward at six was a healthy and altogether delightful boy, cheerful and affectionate. The Prince had appointed Simon Burley to be tutor to the two boys, continuing the tradition of Woodstock, but when he was well enough he took Edward to the courtyard himself to practise sword play with a small wooden weapon. He gave the boy a pony called Bayard Rouge and watched with pride as Edward took to the saddle with ease and was soon master of his mount, never happier than when he was riding.

  To Joan's delight her son John arrived back at Bordeaux bringing letters from the Duke of Lancaster for his brother. John was seventeen now and in his mother's eyes the handsomest of her brood. She embraced him warmly and asked for the news from England, watching him as he lounged by the empty hearth, a graceful figure with his fair curling hair. At first he talked only of the jousts and dinners at the Duke's great palace of the Savoy, and his brother grew impatient.

  'Haven't you eyes in your head, or ears?' Thomas demanded. 'Anyone would think there was no such thing as affairs of state.'

  John shrugged. 'They don't interest me. I can tell you this though, the King is mightily changed since her grace the Queen died. That woman Alice Perrers is pretty enough, I suppose, but she is always with the King and men say it is a great scandal. Do you recall her, mother?'

  'Very well,' Joan said. 'She was one of the Queen's ladies. Eyes like a cat. Does the King so dote on her?' It was hard to believe that he who had once been her lover should be so besotted over such a woman.

  'He never lets her leave his side,' John told her, 'and he cares nothing for aught else. At court people are whispering that the King ought to be sent off to indulge his lust in one of his distant castles so that my stepfather might come home to rule the country.'

  'Well, don't let him hear you say that.' Joan spoke with rare sharpness. 'For one thing he is too unwell and for another he is most loyal to the King his father – as you should be.'

  'Aye,' Thomas agreed. 'Mind your silly tongue, brother.'

  The conversation ended in an argument between them as so often. Joan left them to it and went to ask more details from Sir Roger de Clarendon, Edward's bastard son, who had returned with him. Sir Roger, a rather dull young man, but doggedly devoted to his father to her, told her more of the situation and with growing anxiety she begged him not to repeat it to the Prince until there was some sign of a return to health.

  Lancaster returned a few weeks later with nearly a thousand men, fresh and eager to fight, but he was shocked at the sight of his brother. 'How long has he been like this?' he asked Joan. 'He looks sick unto death.'

  'Please God not,' she said and when he put his arm about her leaned against him, glad of his strength. John of Gaunt might have a cooler, shrewder head than his brother but of his loyalty there was no doubt. 'Now you are here,' she added, 'perhaps he will be able to rest. He is so beset with affairs.'

  'In truth,' Lancaster answered soberly, 'my father has sent me to advise Edward that he is not dealing well with the people here. He must remit this hearth tax and release some of the Gascons he has imprisoned.' But he broached these matters with tact and after a while Edward said wearily, ‘Do what my father wishes, John. I leave all in your hands.’

  Lancaster took many of the burdens from his brother's shoulders but the situation worsened. The Duc de Berry, commanding the French army with Bertrand u Guesclin as his able lieutenant, marched into Aquitaine and besieged Limoges. Edward's friend the Bishop was in residence and a week later came the news that he had capitulated and gone over to the French. Joan had never seen her husband in so violent a rage. Edward turned red in the face and foam flecked his mouth. He wore, shouted, and hurled things across the room.

  'The vile traitor! Spawn of hell! That my own son's godfather should use me thus! By Christ and His Cross, I swear he and all Limoges will regret this treachery!' A vein bulged in his forehead and as Joan ran to him, terrified, he spun round and fell to the floor in a faint.

  When he recovered consciousness, the violence had gone but not his rage which had turned ice cold. He ordered the army out and, too sick even to ride, had a litter made to bear him. Both his brothers attempted to stop him.

  'I have a purpose in this fight,' Lancaster pointed out. 'I'll do it with a good heart, I promise you.'

  'Constanza?' Edward raised his eyebrows.

  'Aye.' Lancaster's expression was cool, withdrawn. 'I did not marry her for love when she fled after her father's death, that you know. It was for Castile's crown and I mean to have it. And since Edmund married her sister he's as eager as I am for the march.

  'He had the best of the bargain,' Edward said frankly and his brother looked over his head to the window.

  'Maybe in one sense. I'll not deny Isabella is the prettier.' He paused. The name of his children's governess was not mentioned but both knew it lay behind their words, that the Lady Katherine Swynford had filled the Lady Blanche's place in his heart. 'But I wed Castile's heir and it is fitting I should do battle in her name. Stay here, Edward.'

  But to his pleas his brother turned on him the face of a man who had gone beyond reason.

  'The insult is to me,' Edward said, 'and I will avenge it.'

  He embraced Joan in the privacy of their bedchamber; she could not keep back her tears, but she said nothing, fearing to raise his anger more. Chilled and afraid she implored his brothers to watch over him, and when they were gone was certain she would not see him again.

  Robin Savage rode out with the army. Since his first fight at Nájera he knew what to expect and though he shared the fears for his lord's health he felt that so great a soldier as the Prince might find new strength in a victory. And a victory they had. A mine blew a hole in the damaged city walls and the stones collapsed for a distance of a hundred yards. Robin was among the first of the knights to set their horses clambering over the rubble, and there was fierce fighting in the cramped streets, women and children running, screaming from the slaughter. The fight became a shambles. The enemy was demoralized, and only the garrison held out, as Lancaster and his brother Edmund engaged in dealing with their leaders.

  The Prince had himself carried into the central market place close by the cathedral where the citizens were hastily throwing down their weapons, swords and pitchforks, eyen spades and blacksmiths' tools. Doors opened and frightened faces peered out, believing the fight was over, all anxious to beg mercy from the conqueror, to assure him of a sudden access of loyalty.

  Edward surveyed them out of a face dark with unabated anger. Then he said: 'Slay them, every man, woman and child.'

  'All of them?' It was Bart Burghersh who spoke, his face bloodied with a cut but otherwise unhurt. 'My lord, everyone?'

  'Did you not hear me? This is my city and they have betrayed me. They wanted the French, well, let them join them in hell. Kill them all!'

  'Sir.' Nele Loring came forward. It was one thing, he thought, to slay a few peasants who got in the way, to burn a town, blacken the earth for military reasons, but this was beyond what was justifiable and his deep love for the Prince caused him to protest. 'Sir, I beg you to consider –'

  'Do it!' Edward shouted and raised himself, his voice vibrating with fury. 'Get to it, all of you.'

  There was instant pandemonium. The people began to cry out and sob, falling on their knees, women clu
tching screaming children. Without any hesitation the soldiers fell on them and a massacre ensued, the wretched citizens cut down in a welter of blood, shrieking with terror, those who tried to run chased and spitted on reddened swords while Edward watched in grim satisfaction, his eyes bloodshot as if reflecting the horror he had ordered.

  Robin Savage, sickened, saw Sir Thomas Holland using his weapon with relish, plunging it into a woman's breast, striking down a little girl, kicking a, screaming boy out of his path, and at that Robin turned from the slaughter and ran to lose himself in Lancaster's troops who were engaged in honest fighting with the last of the garrison. Then they dragged out the miserable Bishop and brought him to the Prince.

  He rung his plump hands and wept, falling on his knees. He mumbled that the Due de Berry had come in such force that he could not resist, that he had ever been loyal to the Prince, adding for good measure that he dearly loved his little godson.

  Edward heard him out with a stony expression on his drawn face. 'You are a despicable traitor,' he said at last. 'You shall lose your head for this, and now, at once, on the steps of the church you are not worthy to enter.'

  The Bishop was near fainting and Lancaster, who had sent his captains to stop the last of the slaughter, came to bend over his brother's litter. ‘Edward, you cannot do this. He is an anointed bishop and you cannot so offend Holy Church.' And as Edward still hesitated, he went on, 'By our Lady, have you not had enough? Look round this place at the dead! You've had your revenge and more than is right.'

  It seemed to Edward that he was deep in a black fog, that his rage had blinded and deafened him. He felt so ill that it was difficult to think, only feeling held him bitterness, anger, humiliation, and the tearing pain in his bowels. He felt a warm, sticky flood and knew he was haemorrhaging.

  'Do as you wish,' he muttered. 'Spare him only get me out of here. For the love of God, John, get me away – I think I am dying.'

  Men ran to take hold of the litter, among them Robin Savage, a prey to emotion as anguished as his lord's. His love for the Prince had been torn apart this day for it seemed to him that the man so long the flower of chivalry had stained his shield in a manner all men would remember.

  They carried Edward to Bordeaux but he did not die. He recovered a little, made John his lieutenant and during the winter gradually handed over affairs to him, calling in all the Gascon lords still faithful to him, asking them to serve the Duke of Lancaster as they had served him.

  Joan, shattered by the account of Limoges which she had heard piece by piece, understood more by what was not said than by what was, reading much into the withdrawn expression on Robin's face, the vicious pleasure on her son's. In her horror and sorrow, her mind went back to that day, long ago in Calais, when the King had wanted to slay the six burghers and how the Queen had begged for their lives. Edward had called it a moment for mercy, yet now he had had his own he had shown none and she wept for him, for the loss of it, for his precious honour so stained. Even more was she distressed by his physical state. He seemed to her utterly irrational, often in violent pain, and she remained always with him, leaving his room only occasionally to refresh herself with a brief excursion to the battlements. He could not bear her out of his sight and she waited desperately for some change in his miserable state. But a worse blow was yet to fall.

  Shortly after Christmas, Dame Dorothy came to her and said that young Edward had a fever. She was sure, she said, that it was nothing, only a childish ailment that would soon pass, and the physician had made light of it. Joan went to sit by the boy's bed, holding his small hot hand. He was burning with fever and when over the next few days it grew worse she became very frightened. Every skilled man in Bordeaux was summoned, purges and medicines tried but nothing eased the suffering child. He looked at his mother out of befuddled eyes and seemed not to know her or his father when Edward left his own bed to be with him. The chaplain came to give the Last Rites and Joan cried out in protest but sadly he assured her it would be better done. The family gathered in the small room, Thomas Holland staring grimly down at his half-brother, John close by his mother, Eleanor and her sisters sobbing, Lancaster himself with tears in his eyes, his wife Constanza on her knees before a crucifix. Richard was brought in but screamed so in fright that he had to be taken out again.

  Edward and Joan knelt by the side of the bed, each holding one of their son's hands, and in the darkness of a bitter January night he died. Edward gave one groan and sank his head on to the bed, weeping as Joan had never known him weep in all the years, the terrible sobs torn from him. With the tears streaming down her own face, she covered the small hand she still held with kisses.

  At last Lancaster came to his brother and getting an arm under one shoulder got him to his feet and back to his bed where he lay inert, broken in mind and body. Joan lay beside him, not knowing how to bear the loss of the boy who had shown so much promise, who had been the joy of their union. Mother of God, she prayed, why did this have to be? What have we done to be so punished? Towards dawn she fell into an exhausted sleep and when she woke, Edward was lying with his eyes open. They seemed empty, his face drained.

  'We will go home,' he said, 'at once. I cannot stay one moment longer in this place. John will see to what needs to be done.'

  'Of course,' she answered out of the haze of sleep mingled with the returning heartbreak of last night. She did not think that she either could endure to see a small coffin borne to its last resting place, and now Edward was her only care. 'In England you will be better.'

  'Better?' he echoed. 'Jeanette, I will never be well. God has struck me down, taken Edward from us because of what I have done: don't you see? We have lost our darling because of what I did at Limoges.'

  'Oh no, no,' she whispered and cradled him in her arms. 'Edward, it is not so. He took a fever – children often fall ill so.'

  As if he had not heard he went on in a low hollow voice: 'God is angered . . . there is a line somewhere . . . He snatches away . . . He will not turn from his anger . . . and I have earned it.'

  He dragged himself from the bed and went to the prie-dieu, falling on his knees there. Joan went to him, wrapping a cloak about his shoulders. She could find no words and her eyes were blinded by tears. Surely God would take pity on them now?

  They bade farewell to Lancaster the next day and the Prince was carried through the streets to the harbour and their waiting ship. A crowd of his soldiers were there to see him go, men who had followed him to victory at Poitiers, to Spain, to Limoges, who would have gone with him anywhere he chose to lead them. Some were in tears and many called out to him: 'God send you better, sir!' and 'God send you safe home, my lord.'

  He looked along the lines with infinite sorrow in his face, knowing he would never again command them, and he acknowledged their cheers and their love for him with a slight lift of the hand, but when they surged forward and his bearers paused he said in a low voice, 'Get on! For God's sake, get me aboard.'

  Near the wharf a man came to him in broad hat and shabby gown, a string of parchments in his hand. 'Buy a pardon, my lord,' he said in a whining voice, 'all fresh from the Holy Father himself. Your sins will be forgiven and the pains of hell not touch you. A gold piece will buy your way to heaven.'

  Edward had lain back with his eyes closed but at these words he struggled up and struck the man so hard a blow that he fell, his hat rolling off, his pardons scattered.

  'God curse you,' the words came out through clenched teeth. 'Do you think your miserable scraps of parchment can aid me now? Get you gone! You serve Satan, not God.'

  Abandoning his wares the man scrambled up, blood on his mouth, and as he fled Edward fell back on his cushions, one arm flung across his face.

  Shaken with such trembling that she could scarcely walk, Joan followed him on board. Young Richard, to whom the exchange had meant nothing, was in great excitement at his first sea voyage. He ran about the ship, his fair curls blowing, generally getting into the sailors' way until Simon
Burley swung him on to his broad shoulders where he might see what was going on.

  Joan lingered a last moment on the deck before going to the cabin to join Edward. She did not look back to where the Duke of Lancaster stood with his brother Edmund to watch the sails fill, but out to sea, a stiff breeze in her face. Gascony had held out so much promise for them and had brought them only to this misery, this anguish. And a memory came to her of the dream she had had not long before Richard's birth, of the great tree overshadowing Edward and all who marched with him. It had been, as she had believed then, a foretelling and she shuddered at the recollection of it and how Edward had laughed at her fears. Sweet Jesu, she thought, there was no laughter in him now.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was to a country sadly changed that they returned. The King had deteriorated in every way since the death of his Queen, and Joan found it hard to recognize in him the vital, dominating and handsome man who had briefly been her lover. Now he was doddering and senile, dribbling his wine when he drank, spilling food down his gown, and allowing corruption to creep in everywhere. It sickened Joan to see Philippa's jewels, many that she knew well, adorning the person of Alice Perrers, for it seemed that nothing could prise that strumpet from the doting King's side. He no longer cared for matters of state, only for fondling Alice's handsome person, his wrinkled fingers straying even during the hearing of Mass.

  Edward was horrified by all that he saw, and deprived of the physical outlets he had loved, now turned to statecraft. He told Parliament he must resign the care of Aquitaine, that the revenues there were no longer sufficient to maintain the duchy, but though so much had been lost she thought he gained much in the few years left to him after their return. He saved the administration from total chaos, attending Parliament when he was able, showing a judgement of men that was unerring. In constant pain he bore his suffering with heroic endurance; seldom revealing his agony; but the end was inevitable, as she had known from the moment she had boarded the ship at Bordeaux. Despite cool English air, the feel of English rain for which he had longed, nothing could cure his diseased body and the miracle was only that he had lasted so long. Slowly his condition worsened until at last he knew death could no longer be fought off. He took to his bed at Kennington, in the great chamber that Joan had brightened with tapestries and hangings and cushions and, fearful for the rights of their nine-year-old son, he had summoned his father and his brothers and begged them to swear on the Bible that they would uphold Richard's succession.