The Star of Lancaster

by Jean Plaidy

  Her child was born soon after that, a daughter who died after a few weeks. The Duke was desolate. He wondered whether the Clisson affair was responsible.

  Charles the Bad, the cause of the trouble, suffered a further bout of his painful illness. One of his doctors produced a remedy which gave him a little relief. Bandages were soaked in a solution of wine and sulphur and it was the task of one of his servants to wrap his limbs in them and sew the bandages together to keep them secure. When this was done he looked as though his body was wrapped in a shroud.

  One night when a new man was sewing the bandages, which was a difficult task for Charles disliked being trussed up, he became even more irritable than usual for the man fumbled and the more Charles roared the more nervous he became. ‘I am like a pig being trussed up for the roasting spit!’ he cried in fury. Little did he realise the aptness of his simile. The servant became more and more clumsy and when he came to sever the thread he found he had mislaid the knife he needed to cut it. Charles was growing exasperated and in desperation the servant picked up a lighted candle to burn the thread and so release the needle. The effect was instantaneous and disastrous. The wine ignited and very soon Charles was wrapped in a cocoon of fire. He screamed in agony as servants rushed in. He was rolled in his bed and smothered with heavy bed coverings, and in time the fire was put out, but not before Charles was so badly burned that it seemed unlikely that he would survive. He died a few days later.

  It cannot be said that he was greatly mourned and when his son, Charles, became the King of Navarre there was general rejoicing for Charles had not been known as the Bad for nothing; and his son, another Charles, having shared his sister’s harsh childhood showed every sign of being the exact opposite of his father.

  Joanna who had become pregnant immediately after the death of her first child gave birth to a son who was baptised Pierre and this birth, to the delight of the parents, was quickly followed by the arrival of a girl child, little Marie.

  The Duke was beside himself with joy. He thought Joanna more wonderful than ever. Not only was she young and beautiful but she was fertile too and for a man of his age that meant a good deal. He could scarcely tear himself away from her and no sooner was one child born than she was pregnant with another. There followed after Pierre who since he was the heir had become known as John Marie, Arthur, Gilles, Richard, Blanche and Margaret. Eight children in all, counting little Joanna who had died soon after her birth.

  This was the happy state of affairs when Henry arrived at the Court of Brittany.

  There the Duke was determined to show his pleasure in his guest. One thing he wished to do was to stress his contempt not only for the King of England but for the King of France as well.

  He delighted too in Henry’s admiration for the Duchess.

  Joanna was very different from little Mary de Bohun and perhaps for that reason Henry found her attractive. Her conversation was lively; she was a woman of strong character; in truth she was the main reason for making his stay in Brittany so delightful.

  If she had been a widow, he being a widower they would have made a perfect match. They were neither of them too old, nor were they immature, and they both had a largish family. Her intelligence on the state of affairs in Europe, and that included England, was remarkable. Henry could see that she advised the Duke with a wisdom which the Duke himself did not possess.

  Yes, Joanna was an admirable woman.

  He did not exactly mention his feelings to Joanna, but she was a very sensible and sensitive woman and she was aware of them; and she saw no reason to hide the fact that she found Henry attractive. There was nothing she liked better than to sit alone with him and talk. Not entirely alone of course, that would have been indiscreet and there was nothing indiscreet about Joanna. There would be attendants but Joanna could always see that they were not too close.

  She told him about the affair of Clisson. It was a cautionary tale. The Duke had a fiery temper and he was capable of very rash acts when it took possession of him.

  Joanna liked to hear about his children and his accounts of them seemed to be dominated by the amusing and very lively Lord Harry. He was concerned about Harry who was at the Court of King Richard. ‘I wished my father to take him,’ said Henry, ‘but the King would not let him go.’

  That made him fearful, he admitted. The boy was in truth a hostage.

  To her he could explain, how he felt shut out from his country. It was sad to be an exile even when one was offered such hospitality as that which he had received in Brittany.

  ‘It will not always be so,’ she soothed. ‘I have a notion that Richard will not long remain on his throne. And then . . .’

  ‘And then . . . yes . . .?’

  ‘Well, you will no longer be an exile, will you? You will go away from us, and it would not surprise me if . . . But I talk too much.’

  ‘Sometimes it is good to talk of one’s dreams,’ said Henry.

  ‘They can be dangerous.’ She looked at him with glowing eyes. ‘Who can be sure of what will happen? You may be a King ere long, Henry of Lancaster.’

  He said almost breathlessly, ‘There is a possibility.’

  ‘And I . . . What shall I be? My husband is not in good health you know.’

  They were both silent. They felt the air was heavy with suggestion.

  ‘I think about it,’ she said. ‘He was an old man when I married him. He had had two wives and outlived them. I was given to him. There was no choice for me. But he has always been good to me.’

  ‘You have made him very happy.’

  ‘I have borne him children and he has always treated me with great care and affection.’

  ‘So should he do.’

  ‘But he cannot live long, I know.’

  His hand had placed itself over hers.

  ‘Who knows what the future may hold?’ he said.

  It was almost like a declaration.

  She spoke in a louder voice, saying: ‘This son of yours, this Harry, he needs a wife.’

  ‘He will have one ere long.’

  ‘What of my daughter? That would link our families in a way which would be very agreeable to me.’

  ‘My son . . . your daughter . . . Yes. It would be . . . a beginning.’

  She looked at him intently, her eyes sparkling. Yes, there was indeed an understanding between them.

  The Duke was agreeable that their daughter Marie should be betrothed to Harry of Monmouth, for as he confided to Joanna when they were alone he was certain that there was deep dissatisfaction in England with the reigning King.

  ‘Richard will be off the throne before long. You will see, my dear. And then . . . it is up to Lancaster.’

  ‘There is another before him. Mortimer . . .’

  The Duke snapped his fingers. ‘A strong arm and a steady head will decide. I think Henry is the one with those.’

  He pressed her arm. ‘We have done well to make him our friend. We will strengthen our alliance by betrothing our girl to the young Lord Harry. She shall have a dowry of one hundred and fifty thousand francs.’

  Preparations went ahead. The nuptials were to be celebrated in the castle of Brest which should be a gift to the bride and bridegroom. It was doubtful whether Harry would be allowed to come to France. Indeed it was most unlikely since he had not been allowed to go to his grandfather. However, the marriage could take place by proxy.

  While these preparations were in progress there was a message from the King of France who wished for an immediate meeting with the Duke of Brittany concerning a matter of importance to them both. Duke John was now somewhat infirm; he did not want to become involved in trouble, and he could not disobey the King’s summons unless he wanted to create a dangerous incident.

  So he went. He was soon back. The King of France did not approve of Marie’s marriage to Harry. He had another bridegroom for her. He had offered the heir of Alençon, and to marry this noble prince the Duke would not be asked for nearly such a large dowry as the E
nglish were asking.

  ‘I could do nothing but accept,’ said the Duke morosely, thereby proclaiming that he felt his age sadly for earlier he would never have allowed anyone to force him into such a situation.

  It was about this time that a messenger arrived in Brittany from the Duchess of Lancaster. The Duke had died, and Henry had now inherited the title and estates; he was head of the House of Lancaster and one of the richest men in England.

  ‘How this must make you chafe against exile,’ said Joanna.

  But it was not long before there was another messenger. The King had waived aside the promise he had made to John of Gaunt and had confiscated the Lancaster estates.

  ‘It is treachery!’ cried Henry when he heard. ‘I will never accept this.’

  Richard was a cheat and a liar. He was unworthy to govern. He had given his solemn oath that the estates should come to Henry of Lancaster on his father’s death. That was a promise John of Gaunt had insisted on.

  Henry talked the matter over with Joanna and the Duke of Brittany, as well as with the Arundels who had been his close companions in exile.

  They were tense days that followed.

  Was Henry going to lose his inheritance? There was only one way of regaining it and that would be by going to England and wresting it from Richard. He grew excited at the prospect for he guessed that it would be more than the Lancaster estates which he would take from Richard. It was clear to him that those about him were expecting him to make some decision. He had been given an opportunity. Richard had broken his word. Why should Henry be expected to keep to his? He knew that the time was drawing near when he must return to England to claim his estates.

  The Duke was full of advice. He was too old to campaign for himself now but he could be interested in enterprises such as this one.

  ‘Richard will be on the alert,’ he said. ‘He will be wondering what you will do. Put up a pretence. Make believe that you are so engaged on your rounds of pleasure that you have no energy for a fight.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ said Joanna; and Henry agreed.

  But the excitement grew. Day and night he thought of little else.

  The Duke, prompted by Joanna, said he would do what he could to raise an army. Henry was thoughtful. Attractive as that proposition was, he decided against it.

  It would be folly to take a foreign army onto English soil. He knew his fellow countrymen. They would rise up against the foreigner. No. If what he heard was true – and both he and the Arundels had their spies in England and messengers were constantly travelling to and fro – Richard was growing increasingly unpopular. He, Henry, would return to England, yes, but he would go on the pretext of regaining his rights. There should be no hint that it was the crown he sought. He would land quietly in England.

  ‘No one must know that I am coming,’ he said and the Arundels agreed with him.

  It was Joanna who suggested that they should pretend to plan a visit to Spain. Let them travel to Paris and let it be known that they were there; and when they left they should go a few miles south, and then turn and go with all speed to Boulogne. The Duke of Brittany would put the necessary ships at their disposal and they could slip quietly across the Channel.

  It appeared that the ruse was effective for soon they heard that Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, who was looking after affairs in Ireland, had been killed near Kells in the county of Kilkenny. Richard himself decided that he must go out there to continue the struggle, which he certainly would not have done if he had had an inkling of Henry’s plans. Roger Mortimer – grandson of Lionel Duke of Clarence, son of Edward the Third and Philippa, elder brother of John of Gaunt – had been named heir to the throne in the event of Richard’s having no children. So before he set out for Ireland Richard named Edmund, Roger’s son, as his successor. Edmund, however, was a boy of eight and the people would not want a child as their king. They had had a taste of that when Richard came to the throne. Edmund was an obstacle, for of course he did come before the son of John of Gaunt, but Henry was sure that Edmund’s youth was against him and that if it were proved that the people had had enough of Richard, they would look to the son of Gaunt, none other than Henry of Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford, head of the House of Lancaster.

  It was a comforting thought.

  Joanna showed a little sadness at the parting although he knew that she was eager for him to win a crown. There was a faraway look in her eyes which he thought he understood.

  They took a last walk together in the small garden within the precincts of the castle.

  ‘I have been so happy in Brittany,’ said Henry, ‘that I almost forgot my reason for being here.’

  ‘I am glad you came to us,’ she told him.

  ‘How can I repay you for your goodness to me?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘by not forgetting us.’

  He stooped and picked a little blue flower and held it in the palm of his hands.

  ‘Do you know what it is?’ he asked.

  ‘It is called myosotis arvensis,’ she answered.

  ‘It is beautiful, is it not? When I see it I shall think of you. I shall have it embroidered on my emblem, and henceforth it shall be known as the forget-me-not.’

  A few days later he left the Court of Brittany. He found an opportunity of giving Joanna the little blue flower which she pressed between the pages of a book and often she looked at it in the months to come . . .

  Harry was becoming increasingly conscious of his somewhat invidious position at Court. He was closely related to the King but everyone knew that his father was in exile and that his presence at Court was regarded as a safeguard for his father’s good behaviour. It was not very pleasant for one of Harry’s disposition to be a captive.

  He knew very well that if he asked permission to visit his brothers and sisters or his step-grandmother or his Beaufort relations, permission would not be granted. No. The King wanted Harry where he could seize him at a moment’s notice if the need should arise.

  Richard was always affable with Harry. He really did like the boy. He was amused by Harry – who was so different from himself. Harry was impatient with such preoccupations as dress and jewels and epicurean meals. He chafed against life at Court. He wanted adventure.

  Moreover he was anxious about his father, particularly since his grandfather had died.

  His cousin Humphrey was at Court. He was not in a very happy position either. They were very closely related for Humphrey’s father had been the Duke of Gloucester who had been smothered by feather beds in a sleazy Calais inn (doubtless on the King’s orders) and the Duke was the brother of Harry’s grandfather, John of Gaunt, and as his mother was Eleanor de Bohun, sister of Henry’s mother, it was a double relationship.

  It had been brought home to both boys that their safety was somewhat precarious, for the fate of their fathers was a constant warning to them that anything could happen at any moment.

  They kept their ears open for news and talked in secret. Harry was sure that his father would come back to England now that the King had confiscated the Lancaster estates.

  ‘When he does,’ he said, ‘there will be many who will help him regain them. The nobles do not like one of their kind to suffer such forfeiture because they say if it can happen to one it can happen to others.’

  ‘He will have to take care,’ said Humphrey.

  ‘My father was always one to take care. He was not reckless like yours.’

  Humphrey was silent thinking of that terrible day when he had heard that his father had been taken. It had been unbelievable. Thomas of Gloucester had always been a blustering reckless man, certain of his power to succeed. He would never forget how his forthright mother, who had never seemed to be at a loss before, suddenly collapsed and became a sad, silent woman. She had been so sure of herself; she had believed so completely that her husband would achieve all his ambitions and that she would rise with him; and then suddenly it was all finished. His father had been taken away. How had
he died? What did it feel like to have two or three strong men pressing a feather bed down upon you until you were gasping for breath . . . and then could breathe no more?

  He must not think of these things. He must be like Harry, who laughed a great deal and followed the serving wenches with lustful eyes and even allowed himself to comment on the charms – or lack of them – of the ladies of the Court.

  Now they were playing with the cards that fascinated them both. These had been invented a few years before for the amusement of the King of France, and were becoming very fashionable in England. Many people at Court played with them and with their kings, queens, jacks and aces, they seemed suited to Court life.

  Harry was smiling at the fanlike array in his hands and looking slyly across at Humphrey. One never knew what cards Harry held, thought Humphrey. He put on a face to bemuse one.

  But before the game began one of the King’s attendants came to them to tell them that their presence was required in the royal chamber, so they laid down their cards and went at once to obey the King’s command.

  Richard was lounging in his chair rather informally with his favourite greyhound, Math, at his feet. The dog watched the boys suspiciously as they approached.

  Harry had tried to entice the dog to come to him but Math gave him nothing but disdain. It was almost as though he was saying, I am the King’s dog, I will accept none but a King as my master.

  ‘Ah, my cousins,’ said Richard, smiling at them, ‘I have news for you.’

  He watched them with narrowed eyes. Harry was going to be a wild fellow, he could see that. He would be everything that he, Richard, was not. Yet he liked the boy. It gratified him to keep him at Court and within calling distance. That was how it was going to remain.

  These two boys were both sons of men whom he had hated – closely related to him though they were. Humphrey was now Duke of Gloucester and Richard had hated his father more than anyone. He had been one of the uncles who had made his life so fraught with irritation when he was very young. He had liked John of Gaunt, Harry’s grandfather, once the old man had accepted his age and given up his fruitless struggle for a crown of some sort. But Harry’s father, Henry of Bolingbroke, he would always be suspicious of.