The Star of Lancaster

by Jean Plaidy

  He and Henry spent a great deal of time alone together and she became apprehensive for she was aware of the excitement these talks had engendered in her husband.

  When they were alone that night she ventured to ask him what Thomas’s motive was in visiting them.

  At first he had been disinclined to tell her, which was hurtful.

  ‘He is my uncle,’ he said, ‘and now my father is away no doubt he feels he must keep an eye on me. He was riding this way so naturally he would call on us. Moreover he is your brother-in-law. I dare swear Eleanor wants news of you.’

  ‘Why, Henry,’ she replied, ‘your uncle has not been very pleasant with your father and that means with you, since you were given the Garter in place of him and since you married me when he and my sister wanted me to go into a convent so that my part of the family inheritance should go to them, it is hardly likely that they feel much affection for us.’

  Then he decided to tell her. ‘That is in the past,’ he said. ‘They were petty differences. I can tell you that something of the utmost importance is afoot.’

  Her heart seemed to miss a beat. ‘What is it, Henry?’

  ‘You know that for some time the King’s behaviour has not pleased certain men in the country. His besotted attitude towards de Vere gives great offence. That man is a menace to the peace of the country. He plotted against my father. It is time the King learned that there are men in this country who will endure this state of affairs no longer.’

  She said faintly: ‘And you are one of those who stand against him?’

  ‘I am in good company,’ he replied.

  ‘Who else?’ she asked faintly.

  ‘My uncle Gloucester, Arundel, Nottingham and Warwick.’

  ‘Five of you then.’

  ‘We are the leaders and we are well supported.’

  ‘Oh, Henry, I am afraid of these quarrels. You could find yourself in danger.’

  ‘My dear little Mary, these are matters which you do not understand. We have to rid the country of those men who are ruining it.’

  ‘You mean . . . the King.’

  ‘The King if need be.’

  ‘But he is the true heir to the throne. The son of the Black Prince . . . ’

  ‘Unfortunately yes,’ said Henry with a note of anger in his voice and she knew that he was thinking: Why was my father not the King’s eldest son?

  ‘Henry, don’t do it . . .’

  He laughed at her and stroked her hair.

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you,’ he said. He touched her stomach lightly. ‘You have other matters to think of.’

  ‘It is my concern what becomes of you,’ she answered.

  ‘Have no fear then. Richard is weak. He is a fool. He resembles his great-grandfather. He lost his throne . . .’

  She shuddered. ‘And his life . . . most barbarically.’

  ‘Richard should remember that.’

  She turned to him and hid her face against him. She knew it was no use protesting, no use trying to persuade him. He was an ambitious man; and though neither of them mentioned this, he was fascinated by a golden crown.

  She wanted to shout to him: ‘It can never be yours. It is Richard’s by right. Richard may have a son.’ Oh God, send Richard a son. That would put an end to these wild ambitious dreams. But even if Richard did not have a son, there were others before John of Gaunt. There was ’s daughter Philippa to come before him for there was no Salic law in England and women could inherit the throne. If Richard were ever deposed and John of Gaunt took the crown then his heir was Henry. Henry could not forget it, remote possibility though it was. It was like a canker in his mind; he was becoming more and more obsessed by it and it frightened her.

  Now he was joining with those four other ambitious men to stand against the King. They wanted Richard out of the way, and Richard was the rightful King.

  ‘Now,’ said Henry, ‘you distress yourself. We shall show Richard that he must rule for the benefit of the people not for that of his favourites. If he is wise, he’ll see that; if not, well then he should go.’

  ‘There will be war,’ she said.

  ‘Nay,’ he corrected her. ‘Richard would never fight. He would give way. There is no fighting spirit in him. Sometimes I wonder whether he is the son of his father. His mother was a flighty woman. She lived with Holland before she married him, you know.’

  ‘Oh, Henry have a care. What if some servant overheard!’

  ‘My little Mary, you are too nervous. It is your state. Never mind. Very soon we shall have our boy, eh?’

  ‘And when shall you leave with your uncle?’

  ‘Tomorrow. There is little time to lose.’

  ‘And when shall you come back?’

  ‘So much depends on Richard,’ he said. ‘But I shall see you are safe and well looked after. That is why I chose Monmouth for you. It is a little remote. You can forget everything here but the coming baby.’

  ‘Do you think I should ever forget you, Henry?’

  ‘I trust not, my love. But you are my wife and you must obey me. My commands are that you should rest quietly, be at peace, not fret, and in due course you will be delivered of our child.’

  ‘You set me impossible tasks,’ she replied. ‘How can I rest quietly while I know you are involved in plots against the King.’

  ‘Not against the King, my love. For the King. Everything we do shall be for his good . . . if he is wise enough to realise it.’

  There was nothing more she could say. She must accept the fact that she was married to a very ambitious man who could see the crown glittering only a few steps away and if it seemed unlikely that he could ever take those steps, he was optimistic and determined to lose no opportunity which might arise.

  The next day he left with his uncle Thomas.

  It was impossible for her to settle comfortably. She fretted; she suffered sleepless nights; she was constantly watching for messengers who would bring dreaded bad news.

  August had come; the days were hot and sultry; she could not move from room to room without a great deal of discomfort.

  ‘You must rest, my lady,’ said her women.

  Rest was no good to her, they knew. She wanted peace of mind.

  Her pains had started; all through the day they continued. She was in agony. Her women were growing anxious. They were reminded of that other occasion when she had given birth to a stillborn child.

  ‘It will break her heart if she loses this child too,’ said one of them.

  ‘And small wonder,’ added another. ‘She has been sick with anxiety since my lord went away.’

  ‘She is frail for childbearing and it did her no good that she should have a child when she was so young.’

  ‘God help us. I fear for her. Is there no sign of the child yet then?’

  No sign.

  Mary could think of nothing but the pain. It came and went and came again. She tried to stifle her cries.

  She was glad Henry was not there.

  ‘Please God,’ she prayed, ‘help me. Help me and give me a boy.’

  She was unconscious when the child was born.

  The midwife took it.

  ‘A boy,’ she said. ‘She’s got her boy. A puny little thing. No life in it.’

  Then she cried out. ‘Oh no. He does not breathe. He is dead. This will kill her . . .’

  She laid the little naked body across her knees and began slapping its purple exterior with a vigour which alarmed those who looked on.

  ‘This is no fault of the child . . . ’ said someone.

  But the midwife paused suddenly, listening. Then a smile of triumph illuminated her features. ‘He breathes,’ she cried. ‘It has worked the miracle. I have slapped life into him. A weakling . . . but a live baby. Thank God . . . for her blessed sake.’

  She laid the child aside and went to look at the mother.

  Mary was breathing with difficulty.

  ‘Send a message to my lord,’ she said. ‘He will be waiting for it.
He should come without delay. Let him be told that he has a son.’

  Henry was on his way to Monmouth when he heard that his son was born. He had been determined to be close by so that he could go to Mary and see their child as soon as it arrived. He had been so preoccupied with his allies that he had had little time to brood on what was happening at Monmouth. He was in a quandary. All the time he was aware of the overwhelming ambition of his uncle Thomas. There was no affection between them; they were allies only for the sake of expediency. Henry knew that Thomas would like to see Richard deposed and himself take the crown. That was something which must be avoided at all costs. If Richard was to relinquish the crown it should not go to Gloucester. He was the youngest of the sons of Edward the Third. No. It must go to John of Gaunt because only then could it come to Henry. But John of Gaunt was out of the country trying to win the crown of Castile and if this revolt came to anything it would be Thomas of Gloucester who was on the spot. But of course Lionel’s offspring should come before him. Then John of Gaunt. Then Edmund of Langley, now Duke of York. But Henry could well imagine how Thomas would dispose of their claims. Lionel’s daughter! A girl on the throne. What they wanted was a strong man, and with John of Gaunt out of the country pursuing the crown of Castile, and Edmund Duke of York having no desire for the crown, Thomas came next.

  No, never, thought Henry. Richard must not be deposed until my father is here to take the crown!

  These were his thoughts as he rode towards Monmouth.

  At Ross on Wye he was stopped by a ferryman, who cried out: ‘Goodmorrow to you, my lord.’ And recognising the lions and leopards he added: ‘And God’s blessing on your bonny son.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Because I know you for Henry of Bolingbroke and your lady has borne you a son I have heard.’

  Henry was overcome with joy. For a while he forgot the inadequacies of Richard and the devious ways of his uncle Thomas; he even forgot his own ambitions.

  He threw the man a purse of gold, and not waiting to receive his thanks shouted to his followers: ‘All speed to Monmouth.’

  Arriving at the castle his delight was decidedly dampened. He was shown a puny infant – a boy it was true, but only just alive.

  ‘He’ll need special care, this one, my lord,’ said the midwife.

  He looked at the child in dismay. This tiny scrap of red and wrinkled flesh, the son he had so longed for! It did not bawl as he would have liked to hear it. It just lay still in its nurse’s arms.

  ‘He’ll need a wet nurse, my lord. My lady is in no state to feed the child.’

  ‘My lady . . .’

  He went at once to her bedside. Oh God, he thought, is this Mary? This pale, wan little creature looking so small in the big bed, her hair falling about her; her eyes sunken and yet lighting with joy at the sight of him.

  ‘Mary,’ he cried, and knelt by her bed.

  ‘Henry,’ she said quietly, ‘we have the boy. You are pleased?’

  He nodded. ‘But you must get well.’

  ‘I will. I will. I must. There is the boy . . . and you . . .’

  ‘He . . . he’s a fine boy,’ lied Henry.

  ‘They will not bring him to me. They say I am too tired. I must rest. But I have seen him. He is a fine boy . . . Henry.’

  ‘A fine boy,’ repeated Henry.

  ‘He is to be called after you.’

  ‘Then there’ll be two of us.’

  ‘He shall be Harry . . . Harry of Monmouth.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Henry.

  She closed her eyes and he turned away to the midwife. ‘Are the doctors here?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, they are waiting to see you.’

  He talked long with them. The Countess was exhausted. She needed rest . . . and peace. As for the child, they hoped they would keep him alive. His first need was a strong and healthy wet nurse.

  Henry had one purpose now. He must save the child for if he were lost he feared that Mary would die. It was the thought of the child that was keeping her alive. The child must live.

  ‘Find a nurse at once,’ he commanded. ‘There must be a strong and healthy girl near by.’

  He paced up and down the room. He heard the baby whimper. He prayed for God’s help; and suddenly an idea came to him.

  He went down to the stables and commanded the grooms to saddle his horse. Then he rode six miles to Welsh Bicknow, the home of his friend John Montacute who was the second son of the Earl of Salisbury. A few weeks previously John’s wife Margaret had given birth to a lusty baby and some instinct told him that here he would find the help he needed. It had been an inspiration. Margaret was feeding her child. She had milk to spare.

  ‘Will you come and help our little Harry?’ begged Henry.

  Of course she would. She would deem it an honour. Within a short time Margaret Montacute was in Monmouth and young Harry was suckling contentedly at her breasts.

  After that he began to thrive, although, warned the midwife, he would not be a robust child and they might have difficulty in rearing him. However, his life was temporarily saved and Mary was able to hold her precious child in her arms. A terrible fear had come to her that he was dead and when she was given proof of his existence she began to recover.

  It was not a speedy recovery but she was getting better every day and as for young Harry who had shown such reluctance to accept the world, he began to grow lively with the help of Margaret Montacute’s milk and gave promise of remaining in it.

  Rather to the surprise of those about her Mary recovered and if Harry was not exactly brimming over with good health he survived, although his nurses insisted he was a child whose health would have to be watched.

  One day there came to the castle a young woman, big-bosomed and wide-hipped, who asked that she might see the Countess of Hereford.

  Mary received her and discovered that her name was Joan Waring and that she lived in a village near Monmouth.

  ‘My lady,’ she said, ‘I hear that there is a baby here in the castle who is not as strong as he should be. I love little babies. I have raised my own. They were born strong and healthy but if you would give me the chance I would like to care for this little one.’

  Mary was not so surprised as might have been expected; she knew there was a great deal of talk about young Harry’s birth. The midwife had boasted that she had saved his life by smacking his bottom hard and forcing him to cry so that he brought the air into his lungs. It was often found expedient to get a good strong village girl to care for a baby of high rank and as Margaret Montacute could not be expected to remain for ever as Harry’s nurse, it seemed a good idea to give the woman a chance.

  She was obviously eager for the task and when young Harry was brought out and she took him into her arms, he seemed to take to her immediately. He ceased whimpering and lying against her soft sturdy breasts he seemed to find comfort.

  Mary decided that she would engage Joan Waring. She did so and for some reason from that moment Harry’s health began to improve.

  They were anxious months. Mary was not sure whether she wanted to hear the news from Court or to shut herself away from it. She lived in constant terror that some ill would befall Henry. There was trouble and he was in the thick of it.

  He had linked himself with the four who were now called the Lords Appellant. They had gathered together an army and had confronted Richard, arm in arm to show their solidarity, and forced him to dismiss those ministers whom they considered to be giving him evil counsel and they had set up the Merciless Parliament who forced the King’s submission.

  She had waited in trepidation for something terrible to happen. Nothing did. The country appeared to have settled down; the King was on the throne and he seemed to have profited from recent events. The country had moved into a peaceful stage, and this was confirmed when Henry came to Monmouth once more.

  ‘You see,’ he told Mary, ‘your fears were without foundation.’

  ‘There might have be
en serious trouble. You might have been in danger,’ she retorted.

  ‘Well, you see me here, safe and well. And how fares young Harry of Monmouth?’

  She was able to tell him that young Harry was faring well. She had found an excellent nurse in a village woman named Joan Waring. Harry was devoted to her and she to him.

  ‘These village women make good nurses,’ was his comment; and his joy when he beheld young Harry was obvious. The child had changed from the feeble little scrap of humanity which had filled him with such misgivings a few months earlier.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘there is no longer the need for you to remain here in Monmouth. I am going to take you away from here to London and then, Mary, you will not be so far from me. Do you like the idea?’

  She did like it very much and preparations were set in motion to leave young Harry’s birthplace. They were to go to London for a while and as the palace of the Savoy had been destroyed by the mob during the Peasants’ Revolt they took up residence at Cole Harbour, one of the de Bohun mansions.

  It was a cold and draughty house and Joan Waring expressed her fervent disapproval of it. The dirty streets, the noise and all those people were not good for her baby, she declared. What he wanted was some fresh country air.

  As little Harry seemed to agree with this verdict it was soon decided that London was not the place to bring up the child and on Henry’s suggestion they retired to Kenilworth.

  By this time Mary was once more pregnant.

  Kenilworth! How beautiful it was with its massive keep and its strong stone walls. Here Mary felt secure and because Henry stayed with her for a while she was happy.

  In due course the time arrived for her child to be born. Perhaps because she felt at peace if only temporarily, because Henry was with her and perhaps because she had already shown that she could bear a son, this confinement passed off with moderate ease and to the delight of both parents another boy was born to them. He was strong and lusty and they called him Thomas.

  There was great rejoicing in Kenilworth when news arrived there that John of Gaunt had returned from Castile, and so eager was he to see his grandsons that he was setting out at once for the castle with his mistress Lady Swynford.