by Jean Plaidy
‘As long as Henry agrees . . . and I shall see him.’
‘But of course you shall. Dear child, understand all I ever want is what is best for you.’
So it was arranged and when Mary was well enough, the Countess left Kenilworth with her daughter.
Chapter III
THE LORD HARRY
For more than three years Mary lived with her mother during which time Henry visited her whenever it was possible for him to do so. Her mother explained to her that when one married a man who was of such high rank one must be prepared for him to have many duties outside his domestic life to claim him.
Mary was resigned. She eagerly learned how to manage a large household; she spent long hours in the still room; she studied the various herbs and spices and how to garnish dishes with them; she could brew ale to perfection; her mother allowed her to instruct the servants on those occasions when important visitors were expected and the Countess insisted that they all realised that in spite of her youth, Mary was the Countess of Hereford and wife of the son of the great John of Gaunt. Nor was she allowed to neglect the finer pursuits. She must learn the latest songs and dances which were fashionable at Court and she played the guitar and sang to guests. The finest materials were sent to the castle for her to choose which she preferred and the Countess insisted that she pay special attention to her appearance.
Those were the waiting years and Mary knew now without a doubt how wrong it would have been had she allowed herself to be forced into the convent. Henry had saved her from that and she would always be grateful to him. She was intended to be what he would make her: a wife and a mother. Providing a happy well-managed home for her husband and children was her true mission in life and during those waiting years she longed for the time when she would be old enough to go to Henry.
Often she thought of him, wondering what he was doing at that time. During the day she was busy; her mother saw that she was well occupied; but at night she would lie in her bed, watching the flickering shadows on the walls, for after the fashion of the day she burned a small lamp in her bedchamber. It was a small metal cup filled with oil with a wick in it; and it was a comfort during the darkness when certain fears came to her.
She was always apprehensive lest something happened and she not be told of it. During the time when she and Henry had lived together and she had been pregnant terrible things had been happening and she had known nothing of them. The peasants had risen and the whole country had been in danger; as for Henry he had been with the King at the time in the Tower of London and had come near to losing his life. She had been – and still was – so appalled at the second near calamity that she could give little thought to the first.
It was only after the tragic birth of her stillborn child that she had heard the truth and she would never forget as long as she lived the day Henry had sat with her and told her about it.
‘A man called Wat Tyler was at their head,’ he had said. ‘The story is that the collector who had gone to gather the poll tax had insulted his daughter and the tyler killed the tax collector and the peasants rallied round him. They marched to London eventually. They wanted to rule the country themselves; they wanted to take all the riches of the land and divide it between them. They were looting everything as they went. They have destroyed my father’s palace of the Savoy.’
She had listened wide-eyed, her heart beating furiously to think that while that was happening she had been living quietly in the country expecting her baby and knowing nothing of it. And Henry had been there in London . . . with the King.
‘They came into London, that seething rabble,’ Henry went on. ‘The King went out to meet them . . . first at Blackheath and then at Smithfield. He showed great courage – everyone said so – and it has to be remembered that he saved the day. When he was at Blackheath I was left in the Tower and the mob broke in.’
She felt sick with fear, and he had laughed at her.
‘It’s all over now. It came out all right. Richard talked to them . . . promised to give them what they wanted . . . not that he can . . . but he promised them and Wat Tyler was killed. They were without a leader. They broke up and disappeared . . . and afterwards the ring leaders were caught and punished.’
‘And you were in the Tower,’ she had murmured.
‘I was lucky. Oh Mary, you nearly lost your husband on that day. They would have put an end to me because they hated my father. Everywhere you go, Mary, you hear them murmuring against him. You know all the lies they tell against him.’
‘Why do they hate him so?’ she had asked.
Henry had shrugged his shoulders. Then he had said, his eyes glowing with pride: ‘Because he is the greatest man in England. He should have been the first-born so that he could have had the crown. He was meant to be a king.’
Mary had begged him to tell her about his lucky escape.
‘It was like a miracle, Mary. There I was expecting them to burst in on me at any moment. I was thinking of you. I thought: My poor little Mary, her heart will be broken. And it would have been would it not?’
She had only been able to nod, being too full of emotion for speech.
‘And then,’ he had gone on, ‘the door flew open and there was one of them; he had a billhook in his hand and I thought he had come to kill me. He called me “My lord” and spoke urgently and told me that he had come to conduct me to safety for my life was in great danger. He told me what to do, and I put on some rough clothes which he gave me. He had a wooden stick for me and he bade me follow him shouting abuse on the rich and so did I and we ran out of the Tower and through the streets of London shouting all the while until we came to the Wardrobe which is the royal offices in Carter Lane and there I joined the Queen Mother and others who had managed to escape from the Tower.’
She had only been able to cling to him and marvel with horror that while this had been happening she had been calmly sitting at her needlework with no hint of the tragedy which had nearly ruined her life.
‘I shall be grateful to that man who saved you for the rest of my life,’ she said fervently.
‘And so shall I,’ Henry had replied. ‘His name is John Ferrour and he is from Southwark. He has been well rewarded. He must have done it out of love for my father for I had never heard of him. But there is no doubt that but for him there would have been the end of Henry of Bolingbroke.’
Later she had heard much of the Peasants’ Revolt and the young King’s bravery and everyone said that Richard would be a great king like his grandfather. The Peasants’ Revolt had been Richard’s triumph, so it seemed at first; but as she saw it he had won by false pretences. He had promised to give them what they wanted and what they had received was cruel death for their leaders and their grievances had remained.
Henry had tried to explain to her that there could have been no other solution. The revolution had to be stopped and Richard stopped it; and the only way it could be done was by promising them what it was impossible to give.
‘We were fortunate,’ said Henry. ‘It could have been the end of England, the end of us all.’
But what lived on in her memory was the danger that could beset her husband; and it was impossible to know real peace except when he was with her.
She was avid for news from Court. Henry gave it on his visits and those were the highlights of her existence. When she heard visitors arriving her heart would leap with joy. Alas, often she suffered bitter disappointment. But those occasions when he came were wonderful. She longed for the time to pass that she might reach that stage when she would be considered old enough for marriage.
Henry longed for it too. That was another anxiety. What if he were to love someone else? His father was married to Constanza of Castile but everyone knew that he loved Lady Swynford. Marriage was no certainty of love.
When the young King was married there was great excitement throughout the country. It was said that Anne of Bohemia was not very beautiful and what good looks she had were marred by the hideous hor
ned head-dress she wore; but the King liked her and very soon horned head-dresses were the fashion in the highest circles. ‘You must have one,’ said her mother.
Henry spent a great deal of time with his father and it was clear to Mary that to Henry no one could ever quite compare with John of Gaunt. There was a great bond between them which pleased her and she knew that Henry was very fond of Lady Swynford, who was treated by all – on pain of the Duke’s displeasure – as the Duchess of Lancaster. It would not be long, said Henry, before they were together. As soon as she reached her fifteenth birthday he was going to overrule her mother’s objections; and his father would help him, he knew.
Meanwhile he brought news of the outside world. The King was devoted to the Queen and she was friendly with his friend Robert de Vere, whom, some said, Richard loved more than anyone, so that it was suspected that he had inherited certain traits of character from his great-great-grandfather Edward the Second. But the Queen made it all very cosy and the trio were always together. It was foolish said Henry because Richard was paying too much attention to his favourite not only privately but in state matters and that was a great mistake.
‘Richard has outgrown the glory of Blackheath and Smithfield and if he goes on like this he will have to take care,’ said Henry ominously and there was a certain gleam in his eyes which vaguely disturbed Mary.
Later he told her that John Wycliffe, who had caused so much controversy with his ideas on religion, had died of apoplexy while assisting at mass.
‘But this is not the end of John Wycliffe,’ prophesied Henry.
There was more trouble when John Holland, the King’s half-brother, murdered the Earl of Stafford’s son and was banished from the country.
‘The Queen Mother is distraught,’ Henry explained. ‘She is trying to persuade Richard to acquit him but I don’t see how he can. This will just about kill her. Her health is not good and she is getting old.’
And it did kill her for she died soon after.
But by this time Mary had reached her fifteenth birthday and one day John of Gaunt sent word that he was coming to see them.
There must be great preparations for such an important visitor and the Countess with Mary beside her ordered that beef and mutton, capon, venison with herons and swans and peacocks be made ready for the honoured guest. The smell of baking pervaded the kitchens for there must be pies and tarts of all descriptions to be worthy of such a guest and the retinue he would certainly bring with him.
Henry was to accompany him and Mary guessed what the object of this visit was. So did her mother for she watched her daughter anxiously.
‘My lady,’ Mary reminded the Countess, ‘I have passed my fifteenth birthday and am no longer a child.’
The Countess sighed. She would have liked to keep her daughter with her a little longer.
From one of the turret windows Mary watched the arrival of the great John of Gaunt, resplendent with banners displaying the lions and the leopards. Beside the great Duke of Lancaster rode his son, Henry of Bolingbroke.
How noble they were – these Plantagenets, and how similar in looks! There could be no doubt of their origins; they bore themselves – all of them – like Kings.
The Countess was waiting to greet them, with Mary beside her. John of Gaunt took Mary in his arms, when she would have curtsied to him.
‘And how fares my dear daughter?’ he asked. She replied that she was well and trusted he was also.
Her mother looked on with pride as she must to contemplate this brilliant marriage of her daughter’s; and the fact that Mary and Henry so clearly loved each other was great balm to her motherly heart.
Henry was watching Mary with glistening eyes and when he embraced her she sensed the joy in him; so she knew that the waiting would soon be over.
There was an air of festivity at supper that evening as the dishes which had caused such a flurry of activity in the kitchen were set before the honoured guests. In addition to the meats and pies there were dried fruits preserved in sugar – almonds, raisins and fancy marchpane with every delicacy that had ever been thought of.
‘Your daughter grows apace,’ said John of Gaunt to the Countess. ‘And her beauty increases. She is no longer a child. Do you agree?’
The Countess reluctantly admitted that this was so; and then there could no longer be any doubt of the reason for the visit.
Mary and Henry danced together; she played the guitar and he sang with her; and while they watched them the Duke of Lancaster explained to the Countess that he was shortly leaving the country for Castile where he would try to win the crown to which he had a claim through his wife Constanza; he was leaving his son in charge of his estates.
‘He is a man now,’ he added.
The Countess was thoughtful. She did not greatly care for John of Gaunt; he was too formidable for comfort. Moreover she knew how ambitious he was and that he longed for a crown. He had married Constanza of Castile in the hope of being King of Castile since he could not be King of England, though he did not live with his lawful wife but with his mistress Catherine Swynford. And he had married his son to Mary because of Mary’s fortune.
Now he was telling her that it was time Mary left her mother and became a wife to Henry.
It must be, she saw that.
Meanwhile Henry was explaining to Mary. ‘The waiting is over,’ he said. ‘You are coming away with me.’
She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes; she was overcome with joy.
‘Does that mean you are pleased?’ asked Henry.
She nodded.
‘I am nearly twenty,’ he said. ‘My father says it is time I had a wife. Oh, Mary, the waiting has been so long.’
‘For me, also. I am sorry I was so young.’
That made him laugh.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘When I go from here, you will come with me. My father is going to Castile.’
‘Oh Henry . . . you . . .’
‘No, I am not going with him. There must be someone here to look after the estates. I shall doubtless travel with him to the coast. Perhaps you will come with us, Mary.’
She put her hand in his.
‘Henry, I am so happy,’ she said.
Those were busy days that followed. The great John of Gaunt must be entertained and she must prepare herself to leave with Henry. Her mother watched her with a certain sadness.
‘I am pleased that you are happy in your marriage,’ she said, ‘but sorry that you are going away. If you are ever in need of me, you have but to send word, my child, and I shall be with you.’
Mary said solemnly: ‘Was there any girl more fortunate than I? I have the best husband and the best mother in the world.’
Mary was indeed a wife and it was not long before she was expecting to become a mother. She and Henry had gone to their favourite castle in Monmouthshire and there they had spent a few ecstatic weeks during which Mary had become pregnant. Life was so wonderful if she could but forget that parting could come at any moment. Henry was deeply involved in politics and that meant uneasy living. He did not like his cousin, the King. He called him a fool in private; he said he was futile, riding for disaster.
‘He lost his slipper at his coronation,’ he once said, ‘and if he is not careful, ere long he will lose his throne.’
Mary hated to think how deeply Henry was being embroiled. She could have wished they could have lived quietly in Monmouth Castle happily from day to day.
She was so happy when he played his recorder and she played her guitar and then sang and danced; or when they played chess with the beautiful silver chessmen which were Henry’s father’s gift to them, or they rode together in the forest as they had when they had first met.
But this idyllic existence could not last. Sometimes she thought – but secretly – how happy she could have been had he been the son of a humble squire. She dared not hint of her feelings for the fact that he was the son of his father was one of his proudest boasts.
A
s the months passed her discomfort increased; it was a difficult pregnancy as it had been with her first child. Henry was a kind and thoughtful husband, but she sensed his restlessness. She could no longer ride with him; she could not dance; and sometimes she was so tired that she could not even concentrate on a game of chess.
She was realising that she had married a very ambitious man. It was hardly to be expected that the son of John of Gaunt would be otherwise, and while he dallied with her in the castle she sensed that his thoughts were far away. The political situation was growing rather tense; when he talked to her about it his eyes glowed and his voice trembled with excitement; she quickly understood that he would rather be at Court than with her; it saddened her and yet she understood. She was only a part of his life; she must not expect him to share her desire for this cosy domesticity; and now, pregnant as she was and often feeling ill, she could not be the lively companion he needed. She must face facts; the idyll was over; it was changing rapidly into sensible marriage. He loved her still but how could she expect the same wholehearted devotion from him which she was prepared to give.
There came a day when his uncle – Mary’s brother-in-law – Thomas of Gloucester came to the castle. Mary was apprehensive about the visit for she knew that Thomas would never forgive her for leaving Pleshy and marrying Henry. Eleanor had been very cool towards her on the few occasions when they had met.
Thomas however greeted her with a brotherly affection and when she asked after Eleanor he said she was well and so were the children. Eleanor now had a son and that seemed to have given her and her husband a great deal of pleasure. He had been named Humphrey which was a favourite name in the de Bohun family.
The boy was strong and healthy, Thomas told her with pride and he trusted she would honour them with a visit.
This was offering the olive branch without doubt and having learned something of her brother-in-law’s nature when she was living at Pleshy, Mary thought that it could only mean that he had some project in mind which had made the loss of half of the de Bohun fortune seem less significant than it once had.
