by Jean Plaidy
The fact was that the papal schism now existed and England supported Boniface who was called the anti-pope by those who gave their allegiance to Benedict as Brittany did.
But Joanna was not of a nature to accept obstacles.
Henry had not yet suggested marriage and only he and she were aware of the feelings they had aroused in each other. She hit on a plan to ask the Pope’s permission to marry anyone of her choice within the fourth degree of consanguinity. She had not very long been widowed; she was quite young so it seemed reasonable to predict that she might wish to marry again. So carefully was her plea to the Pope worded that he saw no reason why he should not give his consent and this he did, having no notion at all that the bridegroom she had in mind was that King whom Benedict would call a rebel.
Joanna was amused by her own cleverness.
When she sent word to Henry to tell him what she had done, he responded with alacrity. Let them be married by proxy without delay. Joanna then sent one of her squires, a certain Antoine Riczi, to England and there in the palace of Eltham the proxy marriage took place.
It was impossible to keep secret for long such an event as the marriage of the King of England and the widowed Duchess of Brittany and the Papal Court at Avignon heard word and immediately sent word to Joanna that in being a party to this marriage she had committed a deadly sin. She had promised to live in matrimony with a supporter of Boniface.
Joanna however was not going to allow such a decree to stop her marrying the man of her choice and when she made this clear Benedict, realising that he might lose her support, gave his permission for her to live with Henry as long as she did not swerve in her allegiance to himself, the true Pope. It might well be that she could turn her husband from the error of his ways and bring him back into the fold.
Joanna herself was delighted with this show of friendship – clever woman to have got the better of the Pope.
The Duke of Burgundy had arrived in France with rich gifts for the Duchess and her family. She had shown by her forceful acts that she was a woman to be reckoned with and it was disconcerting to contemplate that she was going to be allied with that old enemy Henry of England.
Joanna felt that she could with a good conscience leave her sons in the guardianship of the powerful Duke of Burgundy.
She said good-bye to her sons and watched their departure to the Court of France knowing that the King of France would keep the peace of Brittany and preserve the Duchy for her son. Her two daughters, Blanche and Marguerite, should travel with her to England.
It was a rough crossing and at one time Joanna thought she would never see England; the intention had been to land at Southampton, but so strong was the gale that their vessel was blown along the coast. They were lucky to be able to land at Falmouth.
At the head of her party she rode inland and at Winchester she had the pleasure of seeing Henry who, when he heard that she had landed at Falmouth, came to meet her with all speed.
It was a moment of great joy for her when they were face to face.
He took her hand and kissed it.
‘It seems long since we last met,’ he said.
She answered: ‘But I kept the flower you gave me. Do you remember?’
‘You may be sure I do. Forget me not was its message.’
‘Then all is as it was . . .’
‘And shall be as long as we two live.’
They rode side by side into the city; and the next day their marriage was solemnised in the Church of St Swithin with great pomp and ceremony.
Henry was determined to honour his bride.
The old Earl of Northumberland was stricken with grief when he heard of the death of his son. Hotspur had been a great name; he was his father’s favourite son and his defeat and death must plunge the house of Northumberland into deep and bitter mourning.
But not for long. The old Earl cried out for vengeance. He was going to get it and he would not rest until he had driven Henry of Lancaster from the throne he had no right to possess.
He was still in touch with Owen Glendower. The Mortimers were with them. They had a right to the throne. Their cause was just. Together they would go on fighting and to hell with the usurpers.
The power of the Percys was great; they were more than border barons; they were the border kings. ‘We have been defending that border at our own expense for years,’ declared the Earl. ‘Are we going on doing it for the benefit of Henry of Lancaster?’
Northumberland was stricken with furious grief when he heard that his son’s body, which had been given decent burial at Whitchurch, had been dug up on the King’s orders. That it had been taken in a rough cart to Shrewsbury, and had been salted to prevent decomposition and set up between two millstones close to the pillory so that all might see to what end proud Hotspur had come.
‘He is too great an enemy to rest in obscurity,’ said Henry. ‘I want all the world to see what he has come to because he defied his King.’
Hotspur’s head was cut off and the rest of his body cut into quarters and sent for prominent display to Newcastle, Chester, Bristol and London. As for the head he wanted that placed in York on the city’s northern gate so that it was turned towards that part of the country over which for so long he had been a ruler.
The old Earl was mad with grief. He lived only for revenge. When he received a command from the King that if he came to York they would talk and settle their grievances he had no alternative but to accept the invitation. Henry knew that he would have to pass through the northern gate on which was the head of his son.
As Northumberland rode into York and saw that grisly relic he was filled with an all-consuming hatred against the King. ‘A thousand curses on Bolingbroke,’ he muttered.
He was soon to realise that he had been a fool to come. Henry had no intention of making terms with him as yet. He told the old man that several of his castles would be confiscated and he himself confined near Coventry until his case could be tried by his peers.
This was utter humiliation. And there was more to come. But it was no use allowing his pride to stand in the way of his purpose. He had to make a show of humility if he were going to save his life, and he intended to save it if only for the purpose of taking his revenge on Bolingbroke. It was finally decided that as he had not actually been in battle he could not be judged guilty of treason so would merely be fined; and if he swore to serve the King faithfully in future he might return to Northumberland.
Henry was a man who did not keep his promises; Northumberland would be the same.
Yes, he would agree to anything. But when he returned to Northumberland he would plot the downfall of the man who called himself the King.
Northumberland was determined. He was in communication with Owen Glendower; he had made a pact with the Scots, who now that he was against the English had a shared interest.
Henry was aware of this. He should have destroyed Northumberland when he had a chance. He might have known that the Earl would never forget nor forgive what Henry had done to the valiant Hotspur.
Henry marched north. It was winter and there had not been in living memory such a harsh one. The snow lay thick on the ground and in the northern part of the country particularly this would be known for years to come as the winter of frost and ice.
It was not the weather for fighting battles, but Northumberland was determined. He had to regain what had been taken from him and turn the usurper from the throne.
Henry had no alternative but to go into battle. This he did. His numbers were superior; his men were better equipped. The battle was brief and decisive and Northumberland fell from his horse when an arrow struck him wounding him fatally.
Henry was triumphant.
That must be an end to rebellion in the north. Men must understand what happened when they came against the King.
They had come to a small place called Green Hammerton and there it was decided they would stop for the night.
The King and his close attendants were lodged
at a manor house while his company found lodging in the town and, cold as it was, some set up tents.
Henry was wet and cold; his limbs felt stiff and he wanted mulled wine, hot food and a bed on which to rest.
He removed some of his clothes and the wine was brought to him. Suddenly he threw the goblet from him, screaming, ‘What have you done? Who is the traitor? Who has thrown fire over me?’
Those about him recoiled in horror, for his face had grown a deep purple and they could see pustules appearing on his skin. He must have contracted some dreadful disease.
‘What is this?’ cried Henry. ‘What is it?’ He put his hands to his face. ‘Why do you look at me like that? What has happened to me?’
‘My lord,’ said one of the attendants, ‘we should send at once for your physician.’
Henry lay back on his bed. He touched the horror on his face. He knew it was the same which had been appearing on his body. Now he could hide it no longer.
There was one word which kept coming to his mind. Leprosy! He had seen it on his travels. Oh God, he prayed, let this pass from me. Anything I will endure . . . Take my crown from me . . . Do anything . . . but do not afflict me with this. Richard’s death can be laid at my door, I know it. But it was for the good of the country. No, Lord, for the good of myself. Take this from me . . . and ask anything of me . . . and I will do it. I will bear it. . . but not. . . leprosy . . .
He could not leave his chamber. He could not be seen like this. He wondered what would become of him, of the country. Harry was too young yet. He kept praying incoherently. He touched his face. He knew that he looked hideous . . .
The doctors came. They gave him potions and unguents, and in a few days’ time the terrible pustules had almost disappeared. His face was still discoloured and the surface of his skin rough; but he could at least emerge.
The success of defeating Northumberland had become bitter. He turned his attention now to Glendower. Harry was on the Welsh front. Henry thanked God that his son was becoming a great soldier. He was doing good work in Wales and had already brought about the defection of several important noblemen who had been supporting Glendower.
Harry was successful in regaining Harlech and in capturing Glendower’s daughter and her Mortimer children after Sir Edmund had died in the siege.
The battle left Glendower without an army. He escaped but was still free to roam in his mountains and attempt to gather together a force. Henry, however, was confident that this would never amount to much more than an occasional skirmish. They would have to be watchful, nothing more.
The success was due to the brilliant leadership of young Harry. He was a son to be proud of. He was growing up. He was old enough in experience if not in years to command an army.
Henry could have felt more at peace than he had since he took the throne if it had not been that he was constantly on the watch for the greatest enemy of all, of whose identity he was not sure but which he greatly feared could be that dread disease leprosy.
Harry must marry. The sooner the better. He must get sons to follow him. The Lancastrian side of the Plantagenet tree must be strengthened.
Isabella of France was still unmarried. It might well be that after all this time the child had got over her obsession with Richard. She might be ready to consider a match – or her family might which was more to the point. And why should her bridegroom not be the once rejected Harry of Monmouth?
Chapter VIII
ISABELLA AT THE COURT OF FRANCE
When Isabella had returned to France she had quickly realised that something was very wrong at her father’s Court, and gradually she began to understand what it was.
Her father had bouts of madness. People did not at first talk about this to her. She just heard that he had attacks. These attacks could last for months and when they were in progress he would be shut up in the Hôtel St Pol, that Paris residence where she had spent much of her childhood. When he recovered her father was just as she had always remembered him, kindly and seeming in full possession of his senses, but she detected a wariness in both him and the people around him and she knew they were watching for the madness to break out again.
There was her mother – beautiful, and forceful so that she seemed to be the real ruler of France, with Uncle Louis of course.
Louis Duc d’Orléans, her father’s brother, had been appointed by the King to be Regent during his bouts of madness. The Queen who had great influence with the King had advised this and sometimes it seemed to Isabella that her mother and her uncle wanted her father to fall into madness, for when he did Uncle Louis behaved as though he were the King and it was obvious to everyone – even young Isabella – that Isabeau acted as though Louis was not only the King on the throne but in her bed as well. The fact was that this adulterous intrigue between Queen Isabeau and Duc Louis of Orléans was becoming a scandal not only throughout France but beyond.
Then there was her father’s uncle the Duke of Burgundy, a serious-minded man, who deplored what was happening and made no secret of this.
It was a very unhealthy state of affairs and Isabella yearned as much as ever for the happy days at Windsor when Richard had ridden out to see her and they had been so happy together.
‘I shall never be happy again,’ she mourned.
She did however enjoy being reunited with her family. There were her three brothers and three sisters; for recently a new baby girl had been born. She was named Katherine.
The little girls were lodged at the Hôtel St Pol and no one bothered very much about them. When the King was ill he would be taken to a part of the Hôtel and shut in there with a few attendants. Isabella would often lie awake and listen for the strange sounds which came from her father’s apartments. She did what she could to look after the little girls for their nurses were not always careful and when Isabella told her mother this, the Queen said they should be dismissed but did nothing about it. She was too busy with her own affairs which mainly consisted of entertaining and being entertained by the Duc d’Orléans. Isabella thought the Duc the most handsome man she had ever seen and that her mother was the most beautiful woman. It seemed inevitable that they should be lovers. She wondered whether her father knew. Everyone else seemed to, so perhaps he did too.
It was a strange life for one who had been a Queen of England; she clung to her memories of her life with Richard. Isabella would hold little Katherine in her lap and the others would cluster round her while she told them stories of her life at the English Court; and always Richard would appear in these stories, the knight in shining armour.
Isabella kept her ears open and discovered much of what was happening at her father’s Court. As soon as Uncle Louis had the power he had levied a tax on the clergy as well as the people which made them very angry. Some said: ‘We will not endure the rule of this profligate young man and his shameless concubine any longer.’
And the shameless concubine was Isabella’s mother!
Oh, it was a very unhealthy state of affairs.
It was difficult not to like Uncle Louis – who besides being handsome, was always good-tempered and generous; he was amusing and there was always laughter where he was; his clothes were exquisite and he was notorious for his extravagance. He always treated Isabella as though he were very fond of her and when she had first come to France he had professed himself to be very angry at the manner in which Richard had been treated. It had given her great comfort at that time to hear Richard’s praises sung and the usurper King of England vilified. ‘He and his son Harry, I hate them both,’ she said. ‘And they tried to marry me to Harry. I would have none of him.’
Uncle Louis said, Indeed not! She was far too beautiful and too important. What, a daughter of the King of France to marry the son of an impostor! True he held the title of King at this time, but how long would that last?
‘I will go and fight him on your behalf,’ he declared.
‘How can you, Uncle Louis?’
‘By challenging him, my dear. H
e has plundered you of your dowry and he has murdered your husband. I shall challenge him to face me in the lists.’
‘You would not do this, Uncle,’ she breathed.
‘I would indeed, my dear. I shall send a challenge to him without delay.’
In the flamboyant grandiose manner in which Louis of Orléans did everything he sent his challenge.
Her mother was delighted.
‘How like him!’ she said. ‘He is a very gallant gentleman.’ Then she added: ‘Henry will not accept, I promise you.’ But she was really promising herself. The last thing she wanted her lover to do was fight in a combat which could end in death.
She was right. Henry treated the challenge with scorn. ‘I know of no precedent which gives the example of a crowned King going into the lists to fight a duel with a subject,’ was his cold reply. ‘No matter how high the rank of that subject.’
This made Louis fume and fret. Queen Isabeau was with him when he received the reply and she sent for her daughter that she might realise what a gallant champion her uncle was.
‘I shall answer this!’ cried Louis. ‘I shall shame him.’
He sat down and wrote with Queen Isabeau standing over him, watching, applauding and stroking his neck as he wrote.
‘How could you allow the Queen of England to return to her country desolate with the loss of her lord, robbed of her dowry and everything she carried with her at the time of her marriage? Those who seek to gain honour should espouse her cause. Are not noble knights bound to defend the rights of widows and virgins of virtuous life such as my niece was known to lead? It is for this reason that I challenge you.’ He added with sarcasm: ‘I must thank you for the care you have taken of me by refusing this combat which is more than you did for the health and the life of your royal and rightful King Richard.’
‘That,’ cried the Duc, ‘will upset him. I understand there is one thing that never fails to and that is to refer to the murder of Richard in Pontefract Castle. I’ll swear the deed will haunt him for the rest of his life. Yet if he had never committed it, how could he have become King of England?’
