Passage to Pontefract

by Виктория Холт

  ‘Have I offended the Duke of Lancaster?’ asked Alice mockingly.

  ‘Nonsense, my dear. John is delighted with one who is so good to me.’

  ‘My lord,’ said John, ‘I have much with which to occupy myself if I am to raise this army in good time. I pray you give me leave to go about my business.’

  ‘Go, John. Go. I expect to hear good news of you.’

  As he left Alice’s laughter echoed in his ears.

  How could a great man become a slave of his passion? he thought. It made him none the more easy in his mind because he could understand the King’s feeling for his siren.

  * * *

  The Black Prince was at Cognac awaiting John’s arrival. He was coming with a big force. Four hundred men at arms and four thousand archers should give them what they needed.

  The Prince was fighting off one of those debilitating attacks of dysentery which were occurring with alarming frequency. Joan had been against his coming. ‘Leave it to others,’ she had said. ‘You have done your part. You have earned a rest.’ He could not heed her though. Battle was in his blood and he could see that if he was not there these possessions in France, so vital to England, could slip away.

  The King of France was naturally taking advantage of the situation and must be rejoicing in the disability of the Black Prince.

  But John would come with his army and they would stand together. He felt uneasy about John. He had always known of his brother’s ambition. He had now brought with him a commission that such places of Aquitaine which gave their allegiance to the King of England should be received into favour. He, John, would be the arbiter, in the absence of the Black Prince. Was John trying to take over Aquitaine from his brother?

  No, it was reasonable enough. Edward was ailing. There were times when even in camp he was too weak to rise from his bed.

  He must not be suspicious of his own brother; and yet the anxieties would not be entirely dismissed.

  He felt old and ill and disillusioned. His life was battle. He had been bred to it; and since his father had laid claim to the throne of France he had been dedicated to that goal. He himself would one day be King of England and King of France. He must not forget that. And he must make those thrones safe for little Edward.

  Thinking of his son gave him heart. As fine a boy as he had ever seen. Joan scolded him and said he spoilt his eldest son. She was always trying to push Richard forward. Richard was a good boy, it seemed, but he was not like his elder brother. Never mind. They would have a scholar in the family. It did not matter as long as they had the kingly Edward as the firstborn.

  He was depressed nevertheless. He had heard only recently of the death of Sir John Chandos. Beloved friend of his childhood who had been close to him ever since. Chandos had saved his life at Poitiers and he had been rewarded with the manor of Kirkton in Lincolnshire, but nothing could be an adequate reward for what he had done. Chandos once said that he had the reward which meant most to him – the Prince’s lifelong friendship.

  And now Chandos was dead – killed in battle. Edward mourned him deeply and could not forget him. He had died – this good friend – in his service, killed not far from Poitiers and buried at Mortemer.

  To lose such a friend left a scar on his memory which would never heal.

  And here he was, himself so sick that at times he thought his end was near.

  It was a depressing outlook. He could only thank God for the devotion of Joan and the good health of his son.

  As he lay in his tent, exhausted by the ride and determined not to take to his litter until it was absolutely necessary, news came to him that Jean de Cros, the Bishop of Limoges whom Edward had regarded as his friend, had surrendered the town to the French.

  Limoges! To have let the French in. The man was a traitor. A raging fury possessed the Prince.

  ‘By God,’ he cried, ‘he shall suffer for this. Traitor that he is. Why should traitors such as this man live while great men like Chandos are cut down in the flower of their manhood?’

  Never had any of his men seen him so overcome by fury.

  ‘Not a moment shall be lost,’ he cried. ‘We shall leave without delay for Limoges.’

  * * *

  Nor did his fury abate as he rode out with John of Gaunt beside him.

  ‘We shall have the town in a matter of days and then, by God, we shall see what happens to traitors.’

  John was amazed by his brother’s fury. Towns had surrendered to the enemy before. Sometimes it was a wise thing to do if it could save bloodshed and destruction, and the Prince, who was not naturally a violent man, should understand this.

  But on this occasion his anger persisted and it did not abate. All through the six-day siege he was like a man possessed with one motive in life – revenge on Limoges.

  At length, the city could hold out no longer. The moment had come.

  The Black Prince, hitherto famous for his chivalry towards a fallen enemy, screamed in his rage: ‘Let no one in that town live. Put them all to the sword.’

  ‘Women and children, my lord?’

  ‘All. All!’ screamed the Prince.

  ‘But, my lord …’

  ‘By God. Did you not hear me? Do your duty or it will be the worse for you.’

  What had happened to this man, this noble Black Prince whose name was associated with all that was glorious in military matters?

  He had changed. He was a tyrant. He called for blood. He wanted vengeance. The very name Limoges sent him white with fury.

  The Bishop was captured.

  ‘Bring him to me,’ shouted the Prince. ‘I will show him what happens to traitors.’

  His brother was beside him. ‘Edward … I would speak with you alone …’

  He turned on John – this brother who had always sought honours, who had married Blanche of Lancaster, inherited her estates and become the richest man in England under the King.

  John was humble now … appealing. ‘A word, Edward … just a word.’

  They were alone in the tent.

  ‘Edward,’ said John, ‘we must have a care. This is a man of the Church. We could bring down the wrath of the Pope on us if harm befell him.’

  ‘You would plead for this traitor!’

  ‘Traitor he may be, but he is a Bishop. Edward, I beg of you. You have had your revenge on Limoges and I tell you this, it may well be in time that you will regret this act. But for the sake of England and our armies do not harm the Bishop.’

  The Prince put his hand to his head. John took him by the arm and made him sit down.

  ‘You are sick, Edward,’ he said. ‘You are overwrought. I beg of you take care.’

  The Prince was silent for a few moments. Then he said: ‘I pass the traitor Bishop over to you.’

  John was greatly relieved.

  The Bishop was made his prisoner.

  The army encamped outside Limoges and the Black Prince stood watching the black smoke of the devastated town rising to the sky. He fancied he could hear the cries of murdered people as his men went from street to street carrying out his orders – not a man, woman or child to remain.

  Now that he had shown everyone what it meant to defy the Black Prince, a calm had settled on him.

  With it came the terrible realisation that he would hear the cries of the people of Limoges for the rest of his life.

  * * *

  They carried him in his litter. It was useless to attempt to sit his horse. He was sick and he had to face that fact.

  They rested awhile at Cognac where he hoped he might recover sufficiently to continue with the army, but it was clear that this was not to be.

  There was only one alternative. He must return to Bordeaux.

  When he arrived Joan, horrified at his appearance, insisted that he stay in his bed; moreover she sent for the doctors and told them that she wanted to know the truth and why it was that her husband, hitherto so strong, had become a victim to this recurring sickness.

  The verdict was th
at he had endured too many hardships on the battlefield over many years and that he should not return to such conditions until he was completely recovered.

  ‘My lady,’ they said, ‘he should return to England. There he should retire to the country and live quietly until his health is restored. It is our considered opinion that this is the only way to prevent his illness growing worse.’

  That decided Joan. She would hear no protests.

  ‘My dear,’ said the Prince, ‘what will become of Aquitaine if I go home?’

  ‘My dear,’ she retorted, ‘you are worth a thousand Aquitaines.’

  ‘I am not sure that anyone else would agree with that.’

  ‘I have never greatly cared for the opinions of others. We are going home.’

  She was delighted. It was what she had always wanted. She had made the Court of Aquitaine one of the most brilliant in Europe. Wandering musicians had always been well received at the castle; poets flourished there; it was delightful in the evening when the trestle tables had been cleared of food and taken away and songs of love and chivalry were sung.

  But alas the Prince was so seldom there – he was always away winning some glorious battle which never seemed to bring the war any nearer to an end. How much better it would have been if he had remained at home.

  Joan could have been happy in Bordeaux if it were not for this senseless fighting.

  But even though she loved the climate which was softer than that of England and the fertile country with its colourful flowers, she had often felt a longing for her native land, and if she could go home and take her husband and her boys with her and have them completely under her care she would be happy.

  Edward’s health was an anxiety but she was convinced that if she could keep him at home and look after him herself and there was no more of this senseless going to war he would become robust again. That would mean more argument of course but she would face that when it came. The important task now was to restore him to health.

  So there was the bustle of imminent departure in the castle.

  Joan explained to the little boys who were very excited at the prospect of a journey with their parents.

  They listened attentively. Edward wanted to know what would happen to his falcon and his horse.

  ‘My darling,’ said Joan, ‘you will have many falcons and horses in England.’

  ‘May I take my books?’ asked Richard.

  ‘We shall see, my love.’

  ‘Shall we see the King?’ asked Edward.

  ‘I am sure he will want to see you.’

  ‘He is our grandfather,’ said Richard.

  ‘And he has my name,’ added Edward proudly. ‘The King is Edward, my father is Edward and so am I. Edward is a King’s name.’

  ‘So is Richard, is it not, my lady? There was a King Richard. He was very brave.’

  ‘There was only one Richard but there have been three Edwards,’ said Edward scornfully, ‘and my father will be the fourth and I the fifth.’

  They heard talk these boys, thought Joan uneasily. So young Edward already knew that he was destined for a throne. She would rather he had not heard of this. Edward had said: ‘You want to keep them babies for ever just as you want to keep me under your wing. You’re like a mother hen.’

  She supposed she was. Yet she had wanted to marry the heir to the throne – not just because he was the heir, of course; but she had been pleased at the prospect of becoming Queen. Now she was more mature she could visualise the anxieties of kingship. When one was young and inexperienced one thought only of those ceremonial moments when the ruler appeared all powerful, all glorious, but there was another side to the picture.

  She said sternly to little Edward: ‘That will not be for many many years.’

  ‘What shall I be?’ asked Richard.

  ‘You will be my little son.’

  ‘He won’t always be your little son,’ Edward pointed out.

  ‘To me he will,’ said Joan.

  She put her arms about him and held him tightly. She felt his thin body and wished he would put on a little more flesh to be more like his robust brother.

  Edward started to pull his brother away. He was a little jealous of her preference for Richard although it was clear that he himself was his father’s favourite.

  Joan felt Edward’s hands which seemed to her over hot.

  She touched his forehead. That was also very hot. There was a flush on the boy’s cheeks too, and she noticed that his eyes seemed unusually bright.

  ‘Do you feel hot, Edward?’ she asked.

  He considered. ‘A little,’ he replied.

  She ruffled his hair and laughed at him. She was, as the Prince said, like an old hen with her brood.

  She left the boys and went to her husband. He was lying on his bed rather restlessly. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping.

  As she went close to him she heard him murmuring. He was saying something about Limoges.

  She sat down by the bed and took his hand.

  ‘All is well, Edward. I am here. You are in your bed here with me beside you.’

  ‘Jeanette,’ he said.

  ‘Your own Jeanette,’ she replied.

  ‘How long have you been there?’

  ‘I have just come in to see how you are.’

  ‘I was dreaming,’ he said, and she felt him shiver.

  ‘I know. You must forget it. It’s over now.’

  ‘I cannot think what possessed me. Some devil I think.’

  ‘It was the fever.’

  ‘Those people … innocent people … I would have had the Bishop’s head if John had not restrained me.’

  ‘It is done with, Edward. It is this war that goes on and on. We are all heartily tired of it.’

  ‘That must not be until we have the crown of France.’

  She sighed. ‘Well, you are going to be away from it for a while. We shall rest in peace in Berkhamsted while I nurse you back to health.’

  ‘I wish I had never gone to Limoges …’

  ‘Stop thinking of Limoges. It is over now.’

  ‘Never before in all my life have I done such a thing. It will be remembered against me. I shall never be known for my chivalry again.’

  ‘You had to take the town. You had to show them. You spared the old Bishop did you not? Enough of Limoges. Let me tell you how excited the children are. Edward wants to see his grandfather.’

  ‘I am wondering what we shall find at Court. John says that woman openly flaunts her influence over the King.’

  ‘These tales are always exaggerated.’

  ‘It is hard to believe that my father could behave thus.’

  ‘People are always behaving in a way which it is hard to believe, which shows that we don’t know each other very well. Perhaps we don’t know ourselves.’

  ‘No. Limoges …’

  ‘Enough of Limoges. I am going to bring the children to see you. Edward wants to know which of the horses and falcons are going with us.’

  The Prince smiled.

  ‘You would like to see them, my love?’ she went on.

  He nodded.

  ‘I will bring them myself.’

  When she went to the nurseries she was met by a solemn-faced attendant.

  ‘The Lord Edward is unwell, my lady,’ she was told. ‘One of the women has gone in search of you. He seems to have a high fever.’

  * * *

  It had happened so suddenly. A few days before he had been full of health and high spirits and now he lay there limp and exhausted by the struggle to stay alive.

  The Prince had risen from his bed. He was as one demented. What could have happened? How could God be so cruel as to take this beloved child from him?

  Even Joan could not deceive herself or him. He saw the terrible fear in her eyes.

  ‘There is hope yet,’ said the doctors. But there was no hope.

  They sat beside his bed – the Prince on one side, Joan on the other. The child sensed the
ir presence and was comforted by it.

  ‘Father …’ he whispered.

  ‘I am here, my son.’

  Little Edward smiled, while Joan bent and kissed the hand which lay in hers.

  ‘You will soon be well, my darling. We shall go to England. There you shall have a new falcon.’

  The child smiled slowly.

  They continued to sit by his bedside.

  The doctors hovered.

  ‘Is there nothing … nothing to be done?’ demanded the Prince.

  The doctors shook their heads sorrowfully.

  There was nothing to be done then but to sit there while that young life ebbed away.

  * * *

  The Prince was inconsolable. He paced his bedchamber; he sat on his bed and buried his face in his hands.

  ‘My son, my son,’ he mourned. ‘How could this be?’

  Then in his mind he heard the cries of women and children being put to the sword. Mothers, fathers had lost their children. They had loved them as he had loved Edward and he had destroyed them.

  It is retribution, he thought. Oh my God, why did You not guide me? Why did You let me betray my chivalry? The fever was on me … I was a changed man. I know it. You know it … yet You punish me like this.

  Joan came to him. ‘It is no use, Edward,’ she said. ‘Nothing we do or say can bring him back.’

  ‘But why … why …? It seems so senseless.’

  ‘Many things are senseless in this world, I fear.’

  ‘This child … I cherished him so.’

  ‘Too much,’ she said. ‘Too much.’

  ‘You loved him too.’

  ‘He was my son. I loved him and his brother. You still have a son, Edward.’

  ‘I fear for him.’

  ‘He is strong and healthy.’

  ‘Edward was stronger and healthier.’

  ‘Nothing shall happen to Richard.’

  ‘How can we know what punishment God will mete out to us?’

  ‘We will have more sons, Edward. As many as your father has.’

  ‘I am a sick man.’

  ‘When we are in England you will grow strong again. I promise you, Edward, in England life will be good. We have suffered this terrible tragedy but it is over now. We have our little Richard. We will have more sons. Edward, look forward, my love. Put the past behind you.’