The Star of Lancaster

by Jean Plaidy

  For a moment she forgot the boy at her side and then she was afraid for him. It was one thing for him to venture into the hall of the castle but to come face to face with her uncle and the great Duke of Lancaster was another.

  ‘It is Mary herself,’ said the Earl.

  She walked forward and to her astonishment so did the boy.

  He stood beside the great Duke who did not display any surprise at this strange behaviour.

  Apprehensively she curtseyed, wondering how she was going to explain.

  The Duke lifted her up in his arms and said: ‘Why, Mary, you have grown since we last met. You have already made the acquaintance of Henry.’

  Henry!

  The boy was smiling at her.

  ‘We met outside the castle, my lord father,’ he said. ‘So . . . we came in together.’

  It was bewildering. The boy whom she had thought to be some humble squire was in fact the son of the great John of Gaunt – more noble than she was. She was overcome with shame. What had she said to him!

  It was all something of a joke now. He had come to the castle with his father who had been anxious to see his ward and to discover how she was getting on at Pleshy.

  The Countess said: ‘When my lord Lancaster heard that you were coming here he thought it would be an easy way of assuring himself that you were well and happy. It was so much easier than going to Pleshy.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And you know he and his brother are not on the most amicable of terms.’

  ‘It is a pity when there is conflict in families,’ said Mary.

  ‘But always inevitable. This young Henry of ours is a fine young sprig of the royal branch, do you not think? He was the cause of the trouble between the brothers. Knight of the Garter and already Earl of Derby! I am not surprised that his father dotes on him. He will be a good companion for you while you are with us, Mary.’

  ‘I have my cousins.’

  ‘Yes, but I am sure you will find Henry more amusing.’

  It was true, she did.

  At first she had reproached him for the way he had behaved in the forest.

  ‘It was but a game,’ he said. ‘I could not resist it. I saw you as we arrived. You were just entering the forest – which was forbidden, I am sure. I came to guard you.’

  ‘It was deceitful not to say who you were,’ she retorted.

  ‘Oh dear. I had forgotten they are going to make a nun of you, are they not?’

  ‘They will not make anything of me if I do not wish it.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you something. You are not going to be a nun.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because you will never agree to shut yourself away from the world. You like it too much.’

  ‘My future is not yet decided.’

  ‘It will be soon,’ he told her, and there was laughter in his eyes.

  He wanted always to be with her.

  ‘You neglect my cousins sorely,’ she reprimanded.

  ‘They do not mind. They are but children.’

  ‘And how old are you?’

  ‘Soon to be fifteen.’

  It was indeed a few years older than she was, but he never seemed to notice that difference.

  She could play as good a game of chess as he could. They would often be seated together in a corner of the great hall, their heads bent over the chess board. Sometimes the great Duke himself would stand by watching the game – applauding a good move. He seemed very contented to see them together.

  She would sing to him, playing her guitar as accompaniment. His voice would join with hers; they were in perfect harmony.

  The Countess said they must sing together for the company after supper and when they did so, she noticed the eyes of the great John of Gaunt glazed with emotion. He clearly had a great affection for his son and she could understand it for she was discovering that she had too.

  The days passed too quickly. She knew that she would have to go back to Pleshy very soon and when she thought of returning to the old way of life she felt depressed. Perhaps Henry would come to see her at Pleshy; but if she became a nun they would not be able to meet very often.

  They rode out together with a party but Henry always contrived that he and she escaped. She fancied that their elders realised this and were amused rather than displeased by it.

  Then one day when they had escaped from the party and were riding in the forest they came to the clearing where they had sat on that first occasion.

  Henry suggested that they tether the horses and sit in the same spot for a while as he had something to say to her.

  ‘You will soon be going back to Pleshy,’ he began.

  She sighed. ‘Alas yes. My stay here has been longer already than I thought it would be. I shall be returning soon, I am sure.’

  ‘I too shall be leaving here with my father.’

  ‘It has been such a happy time.’

  ‘For us both,’ said Henry. ‘Mary, you will not go into a convent, will you?’

  ‘I am unsure . . .’

  He turned to her passionately, and putting his arms about her held her close to him. ‘Oh Mary,’ he whispered, ‘you can’t do that. Promise you will not.’

  ‘Why should it mean . . . so much to you?’ she asked rather breathlessly.

  ‘Because I want to marry you.’

  ‘To marry me. Oh Henry . . .’

  ‘Does that please you?’

  She looked about her at the stark branches of the trees which she loved and she thought the forest of Arundel was the most beautiful place in the world.

  ‘You have answered,’ he said. ‘It does please you.’

  ‘So much,’ she said. ‘I have never in my life been so happy as I have since you came.’

  ‘Then it is settled.’

  ‘What is settled? I shall have to go away from here and so will you.’

  ‘We shall be married,’ he said.

  ‘Married. How can we be? I cannot marry . . . just like that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It would never be allowed.’

  ‘I can tell you that my father will not forbid it and he is your guardian.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘He has told me.’

  ‘So . . . you have talked with him.’

  ‘Only because I was so eager. I felt if I could get his consent that would be all we needed.’

  ‘And . . . he has given it.’

  ‘He loves you. He says you have been his ward and now you will be his daughter.’

  ‘Is this truly so?’

  ‘It is indeed. He has been delighted by the way in which we have grown to love each other. He says he sees no reason why we should not marry . . . soon.’

  ‘Henry, I am not yet eleven years old.’

  ‘That is a very pleasant age. I am fourteen. You see there is not much difference between us.’

  ‘They would never let us marry yet. We should have to wait.’

  ‘There could be a ceremony . . . so that none could keep us apart. What say you, Mary?’

  She clasped her hands together and was silent. It was too much to take in. It was not so long ago that she had sat here, lost in the forest, uncertain of the way she must go back to the castle, uncertain of her way in life too.

  Henry had taken her hand and kissed it. ‘You want to marry me, Mary. You know you do. Think how you have enjoyed these last days. It would be like that for the rest of our lives.’

  She contemplated it and it seemed to her too wonderful to be true. Not to have to live at Pleshy; to give up her studies at the convent. How could she ever have thought she wanted to become a nun?

  ‘Yes, Henry,’ she cried. ‘I do want it. I want to marry you. I want to have many children. I want to be a wife and a mother and live like this for ever.’

  Henry was laughing. He embraced her fervently. He told her that he had never been so happy in his life.

  ‘Let us go back to the castle and tell them.’

  She did
not want to go yet. She wanted to linger in the forest. For all he said, she feared their disapproval. Although they had seemed content to see her and Henry together and had not stopped their being alone, which in itself was strange, she still felt that her extreme youth would be stressed and while they would be kind, might let them become betrothed, that would be as far as this matter would go for the time. They might be married in say three years’ time . . .

  But she was wrong.

  When they returned to the castle Henry took her immediately to his father.

  ‘My lord,’ he cried, ‘Mary has promised to marry me.’

  Mary was astonished by the expression on the Duke’s handsome face. His eyes looked more fiercely blue than ever and a smile of delight spread across his face.

  ‘But, my dear children . . . this news moves me and delights me. Nothing could please me more.’

  He took Mary into his arms and held her tightly so that she felt she would suffocate against the lilies and the leopards. Then he released her and embraced Henry.

  ‘It is what I hoped for,’ he said. ‘It has delighted me to see you two grow to love each other. Love is the best foundation for marriage.’ He was too emotional to speak for a moment. He meant what he said. His ambitious marriage with Constanza of Castile had been undertaken for love of a crown which was love of another sort and often he had wondered whether he should not have been recklessly romantic and married Catherine Swynford, the woman he loved. Marriage for love. What a blessing. But when there was great wealth as well as love, then there could be no doubt that the marriage was an ideal one.

  He smiled benignly on Mary. ‘So, my child, you have decided the convent life is not for you, eh. You have chosen wisely, and most happily for this son of mine. You shall be betrothed.’

  ‘We are anxious, my lord, that we should be married,’ said Henry. ‘We do not wish for a long delay.’

  ‘You see what an impatient man you are to marry, Mary,’ retorted the Duke. ‘Well, it is a measure of his love for you. I tell you sincerely, nothing shall stand in the way of your wishes.’ Mary could not believe she heard aright. The great man seemed as happy about the union as she and Henry were.

  Chapter II

  THE CHILD WIFE

  Lancaster could not await to acquaint the Earl and Countess with the good news.

  ‘It has worked perfectly,’ cried Lancaster. ‘Henry has played his part to perfection. He knew what I wanted and it seems that when he saw the pretty child he wanted the same thing himself.’

  ‘It is a pleasure to have such a dutiful son,’ replied Arundel.

  ‘They make a charming pair,’ said the Countess. ‘I think Henry is a very lucky boy and I am so glad our little Mary has escaped from that sister of hers. I wonder what Thomas is going to say when he hears the news. I should love to be present when it first comes to his ears.’

  ‘He will rant and rave,’ said the Earl. ‘And try to prevent it.’

  ‘That is what we must beware of,’ added Lancaster. ‘I do not think it wise for Mary to return to Pleshy.’

  ‘No indeed,’ agreed the Earl. ‘Eleanor would be capable of anything. She might lock the child up until she promises to go into a convent. She’ll be furious – particularly as this has happened while Thomas is away.’

  ‘He could not have refused to let Mary come to Arundel,’ pointed out Lancaster.

  ‘He would have tried to if he had known you and Henry were coming here,’ said the Earl.

  ‘He would not have thought of this . . . in view of Mary’s youth.’

  ‘Mary’s youth!’ mused the Countess. ‘She is young for marriage.’

  ‘Oh let them live together,’ said Lancaster. ‘They will act according to nature and that is the best way. I want to see them married and I intend that the ceremony shall take place with all speed.’

  ‘And you want her to remain here right up to the time when it shall take place?’

  ‘I think it best. And we should keep quiet about the proposed marriage. Then it shall take place at the Savoy. I doubt my brother – if he has returned which I hope he will not – or his wife will be among the wedding guests.’

  Eleanor had begun to realise how long her sister had been away, but she was not unduly disturbed. The weather was bad and it was not easy to travel in the winter. Her aunt had given the impression that she believed a convent life would be good for Mary and if the girl came back convinced of her vocation Eleanor would be delighted.

  Pregnancy was irksome to one of her vitality. It was a necessity of course if she was to breed; and she must produce sons. She hoped she would have one to show Thomas when he returned from France. Even so they would have to busy themselves in getting another.

  She sat disconsolately among her women who talked continually of the baby and sometimes they would mention the Lady Mary and wonder if she missed the convent.

  ‘Of course she does,’ retorted Eleanor firmly. ‘Her life is with the nuns. Dear child, she has a saintly nature. It is clear where her destiny lies.’

  The ladies murmured agreement. It was always wise to agree with Eleanor and it was impossible to be in this household and not know the urgent wish of its master and mistress.

  On a snowy afternoon her pains started. Everything was in readiness and within a day the child had made its appearance.

  It was a great disappointment to the Countess that it should be another girl.

  She lay disconsolately in her bed and listened to the wind buffeting the walls of Pleshy. How frustrated Thomas would be. But the child was healthy enough and she decided to call her Joan. Before long she would be once more pregnant she supposed and would have to go through the wearisome months of waiting and then produce . . . not another girl. No, that would be too unfortunate. But it had happened to others. Lancaster had got girls and a stillborn son before young Henry had been born at Bolingbroke.

  While she was brooding a messenger arrived. It was strange that he should have come from Lancaster when the Duke had just been in her thoughts.

  ‘A messenger from my lord of Lancaster,’ she cried. ‘What news from him, I wonder.’

  The messenger was brought to her bedchamber and the letters were handed to her.

  She did not hasten to read them, but questioned the messenger whence he had come and when she heard that he came from Arundel the first quiver of concern came to her. She sent the messenger down to the kitchens to be refreshed in the accepted manner, and broke the seals.

  What she read almost made her leap from her bed, weak though she was.

  The Duke was delighted to inform her that his son Henry, Earl of Derby, had fallen in love with her sister Mary. There was no one he would rather see married to his son. He had therefore given his consent to the marriage, for he could see no reason why the young people should be denied their happiness. Thomas was away but he hoped she would make all speed to his palace of the Savoy where the marriage was to be celebrated without delay.

  She could not believe this. It was impossible. It was a nightmare. She was dreaming!

  Mary to be married! The child was not yet eleven years old. How could she marry at such an age! Of course it was Mary’s fortune Lancaster wanted. The avaricious scheming rogue!

  Mary was too young for marriage. She was going to protest. Oh, why was not Thomas here!

  Yet what could Thomas do if he were here? Lancaster was Mary’s guardian. Lancaster was the elder brother. It was said that Lancaster was the most powerful man in the country for poor King Richard counted for little. And he had taken advantage of the fact that Mary was away from Pleshy.

  ‘The scheming devil!’ she cried.

  She was helpless. Unable to leave her bed.

  They had planned this. Was Arundel in it? Thomas would never forgive them. There would be murder between those brothers one day.

  She should never have let Mary go to Arundel. She should have seen what was coming. She might have known . . .

  She read the letter again. Henry an
d Mary in love! She sneered in fury. Henry was in love indeed and so was Lancaster. In love with Mary’s fortune.

  That was at the root of the matter. It was Mary’s money they wanted. It was Mary’s money they all wanted.

  ‘Oh Mary, you little fool,’ she cried, ‘why did you not go into your convent?’

  Clenching and unclenching her fists she lay in her bed.

  The midwife came in and shook her head. ‘My lady, you need rest. You must be calm. It is necessary to your good health.’

  She felt limp and exhausted.

  She had gained a child – a girl child and lost a fortune.

  Mary was bewildered. There was no time to think very much about anything but the approaching wedding. She was in a state of blissful happiness, but the rapidity with which everything was happening could not fail to make her feel somewhat bemused. She had expected betrothal but not this hurried wedding. It was not that she had any doubts about her love for Henry. She wanted to marry him; but she had naturally thought that in view of their ages they would wait for a year at least.

  But no, said the Duke of Lancaster. They would have this happy matter settled without delay. Henry wanted it. She wanted it. And the Duke wanted their happiness.

  In the circumstances he thought it wise that the ceremony should take place at his palace of the Savoy. It would be simpler than having it at Cole Harbour which he believed was an uncomfortable draughty place.

  Mary confirmed that this was so. ‘There is Pleshy,’ she suggested.

  The Duke said hastily that he thought the Savoy would be more suitable.

  ‘It is one of our homes,’ he said, ‘and one particularly dear to me. After the ceremony you and Henry can go to Hertford or Leicester or perhaps Kenilworth. I think Henry will want to show you Kenilworth. I believe it to be his favourite of all our castles.’

  Mary said she would be pleased to go wherever Henry wished, which made the great Duke take her hand, kiss it and declare that Henry was indeed lucky to have found such a bride.

  They were wonderful days. She and Henry rode together through the forest. He told her of how he hoped to stand beside his father and bring glory back to England. He seemed to her so knowledgeable of the world. He was on intimate terms with the King. ‘We’re cousins,’ he said, ‘and of an age. Three years ago we received the Order of the Garter together. That was when the old King was alive. It was just before he died. He was a sick old man then. I remember him as little else, but people say that when he was young he was goodly to look on. Then he was a faithful husband and a strong King.’