The Star of Lancaster

by Jean Plaidy

  The burden of his discourse was that it was lawful, honourable and meritorious to slay or cause to be slain a traitor to his country – especially when that traitor holds greater power than the King. Was this not what had happened in the case of the Duc d’Orléans, whose object had been to set aside the King and his sons and take the crown himself? Far from blaming the Duke of Burgundy, the King and the country should applaud what he had caused to be done.

  The poor little Dauphin was bewildered. So was the council. There was some truth in this. Orléans, the extravagant libertine, had no gift for government. The country had prospered temporarily under the old Duke of Burgundy. Was his son right in what he had done?

  While the monk continued to lay before the Dauphin and the council the case for Burgundy, the King recovered and was able to preside and listen to the arguments put forth. It was true, he thought, that Orléans had almost brought the country to ruin; it was true also that the old Duke of Burgundy had saved it. All he wanted was peace and there never would be if he did not agree that what Burgundy had done was good for France. Orléans had been a traitor to him. The King knew of his liaison with the Queen.

  A letter was brought to him from the monk who implored him to sign it.

  ‘My lord,’ he pleaded, ‘a stroke of the pen from you and this matter will be settled.’

  The King read the letter:

  ‘It is our will and pleasure that our cousin of Burgundy abide in peace with us and our successors in respect of the aforesaid deed and all that hath followed it, and that by us and our successors our people and officers no hindrance on account of that may be offered to the Duke and his.’

  ‘Just your name, sire,’ begged the monk, ‘and this highly dangerous matter is at an end.’

  Charles was tired of strife. He did not know from one day to the next when an attack was coming on.

  He signed.

  ‘Tell the Duke of Burgundy that I will receive him,’ he said.

  The Duke did not need a second invitation. He came at once to the King.

  Charles received him cordially but somewhat mournfully.

  ‘I can cancel the penalty,’ he told him, ‘but not the resentment. It will be for you, Monsieur le Duc, to defend yourself from attacks which it seems likely will come.’

  ‘Sire,’ replied the Duke, ‘if I am in favour with you I fear no man living.’

  The Queen was dismayed. The King would not listen to her. She had lost her lover. She was distraught and she wondered what would happen to her.

  Isabella, deeply concerned by all that was going on around her, caught up in a marriage which had not been of her seeking, found time to visit her little sisters who were lodged in the Hôtel St Pol and were often neglected.

  She arrived one day to find they had gone. The servants, distressed and weeping, told her that the Queen had come and taken them away.

  ‘Where has she taken them to?’ cried Isabella.

  No one could say. This was particularly strange because the Queen had never shown much interest in the children.

  Later it was discovered that she was hiding in Melun and had all the royal children with her. The King had lapsed into one of his mad periods and the Duke of Burgundy seized the reins of government and showed by his strength of purpose that he was capable of the task.

  After a few months a revolt in Flanders demanded Burgundy’s presence, so he left France and rode off to settle the trouble in Flanders.

  No sooner had he gone than the Queen came back to Paris with the Dauphin, and the latter was very warmly received by the Parisians. It was clear that the people were with him. The widowed Duchess of Orléans then began to plead with the Dauphin to bring her husband’s murderer to justice and the Dauphin was advised to tell her that he would consider the matter, but before he had time to do this news came that Burgundy had subdued the rebels in Flanders and was on his way back to Paris. The Queen with the Dauphin and all the members of the royal family set out for Tours so that when Burgundy returned he found no one there to greet him.

  He was wise enough to know that he could not rule as King; what he wanted was the Dauphin to be his figurehead; so he immediately set out for Tours in an attempt to make peace between the two factions. At this time Violante died – some said of a broken heart so much had she loved her faithless husband; but with her no longer begging for revenge and with the Queen realising that it was to her advantage to make a pact with Burgundy, peace was made between the parties.

  Isabella had watched all that was going on with disgust and sadness.

  She did not dislike her young husband, and she was now going to have a child. She wondered whether that would change her feelings and whether she might be happy again.

  If only it were Richard’s child, how happy she would be! So many years had passed. Was it nine since she had last seen him? She remembered how he had picked her up and held her fast and begged her never to stop loving him. As if she could!

  He had not known what lay ahead then – a cold and dismal cell in Pontefract Castle, death . . .

  And she a child then, to be left alone . . . to face life without him.

  From the Court of that scheming murderer and the blustering hateful Harry she had come to her home to find her father mad, her mother a wanton and to be plunged into another drama of murder and revenge.

  But soon she would have a child. It must make a difference.

  Charles, her young husband, had grown up considerably in the last few months; he was delighted that they were to have a child; he could not do enough for her. She was beginning to care for him.

  As she lay on her bed, heavy with child, she sometimes asked herself if she could be happy again. Perhaps. When she had the child and she and Charles had become absorbed by it. Who knew? Perhaps the future would chase away those figures of the past. Perhaps she would cease to mourn for Richard and accept the fact that he was lost to her for ever.

  She had gone to Blois, home of the Orléans family of which she was now a member. There was something formidable about this massive château with its thick stone walls rising from the rock on which it was built. It looked impregnable standing high over the town, supported by its mighty buttresses. Isabella could not forget that here such a short time ago Violante Visconti had died, of a broken heart, they said; and on her deathbed she had implored her three sons and daughters to avenge the death of their father. There had been one other child she sent for – the bastard son of her husband and a woman called Marietta d’Enghien; she saw in this boy of six the making of a warrior. ‘You will avenge your father, little bastard of Orléans,’ it was reported she had said; and he had sworn he would.

  Was she wise to have come to Blois, the scene of so much unhappiness? But then what place was not so haunted?

  Charles came to her. He did not seem so young now. She herself was twenty-one – not so very much older than he was yet she felt old in experience.

  He talked of the child. He wanted a boy who would become a future Duc d’Orléans. She wondered how often he thought of his murdered father. He never spoke of him. Like her he was looking forward; there was only sadness in looking back.

  The thought of the child was always with her. It will be a new life, she thought. And she shut out the memory of the violent happenings about her. Her mother did not come to see her. She was too involved in her intrigues. She must not brood on what might be to come. She had had enough of trouble and wanted peace.

  September had come. She had carried the child through the hottest months; now she was grateful that the weather was a little cooler.

  Her pains started early in the morning. Her labour was long and arduous. She was only half aware of the figures round her bed. There was nothing now but the agony.

  She fell into unconsciousness . . . and when at last she heard the cry of a child, she was not sure where she was. She was riding in the country. It was England and Richard was coming to meet her. They were looking at each other, in a kind of bewilderment. He was t
he most beautiful creature she had ever seen with his golden hair waving in the breeze and his blue eyes alight with admiration for her and a faint flush on his delicate skin. And for him she was the most beautiful little girl in the world. She could hear his voice telling her so.

  ‘Oh Richard . . . Richard . . . dear Richard . . . I am coming to you now . . .’

  How had she known? It was some premonition. She had a new life to lead but she was not going to start it. Her happiness had been Richard. There was nothing that could replace that.

  They put the child in her arms. A little girl.

  Charles, Duc d’Orléans since the murder of his father, was kneeling at her bedside. She could see his anxious eyes. She put out her hand and touched his face. It was wet with tears.

  Why did he weep? But she knew.

  She was twenty-one years old. It was young to die. But she was ready.

  Within a few days after the birth of her child Isabella was dead.

  Chapter IX

  PRINCE HAL

  The Queen of England was thoughtful as her women dressed her. She was beautiful, everyone had agreed with that; but she had to grow accustomed to the fact that the people did not like her. She was not very sure that they liked the King himself. They called her the Foreigner and some whispered of him: Usurper. Coming to the throne as he had would naturally mean that there would always be some to raise their voices against him.

  Her hair hung in thick curls; and her close-fitting gown accentuated the excellence of her figure. She did not look as if she had had several children. Her women placed the tall Syrian cap on her head. It became her. She would have changed the fashion if it had not done so; she herself arranged the transparent veil.

  Life had not been quite what she had expected in England. She supposed that after her arranged marriage to the ageing Duke of Brittany it had seemed romantic when Henry of Lancaster had come to the Court – an exile needing comfort and help, and with a throne to win. And a far-off lover . . . that had been very romantic. Both of them waiting on fate. And when fate had worked in their favour it had seemed like a miracle.

  Well, the reality was somehow different.

  Kings and Queens could not expect life to run smoothly for them. They were neither of them in their first flush of youth; she was thirty-three years old, Henry four years older; both had known other marriages – fruitful ones. She had her daughters here with her. More important perhaps was the existence of her sons, and their interests, closely allied with France, might not always be the same as those of Henry.

  Henry’s daughter Blanche was married to Louis, son and heir of the Duke of Bavaria and Elector Palatine of the Rhine. The child had already left England when Joanna arrived. His second daughter, Philippa, would soon be departing for her marriage with Eric of Sweden, and Joanna’s own daughters would have to marry sooner or later.

  There were too many cares in their lives for romance.

  She was fortunate in having been able to form a friendly relationship with the Prince of Wales and she had been greeted warmly by other members of the family.

  There was one in particular. She smiled at the thought of him. Joanna liked admiration – who does not? – and coming from such a person as the royal Duke of York it was very welcome.

  Henry was deeply immersed in the affairs of the country. He had a great deal to occupy and worry him, and he was often morose. There was a reason for this which she had soon discovered.

  It had alarmed her.

  She remembered the scene in their bedchamber when he dismissed the servants and would not allow them to assist in his disrobing.

  He had had to confess to her for she might easily discover his affliction for herself.

  ‘Joanna,’ he said, ‘a terrible misfortune has come upon me.’

  His face had turned grey as he talked to her and that made more noticeable the marks on his skin which she had thought till then were due to cold winds or sitting too close to the fire, and that they would pass with the aid of balmy weather and unguents.

  ‘I am afflicted by a disease. I know not what it is. I had thought it would pass. But it does not. It affects my skin and at times I feel as though I have been doused in fire. The irritation is sometimes unbearable. Once it showed itself on my face . . .’ He touched his wrinkled skin. ‘It disappeared . . . or almost did. But I dread its return and it never goes completely away.’

  She had looked at the marks on his body with growing uneasiness and tried to comfort him. She would consult the keeper of her stillroom. She believed there were ointments which could cure such afflictions.

  But she was disturbed and so was Henry.

  This man with the fear of a horrible disease which was advancing on him was very different from the romantic lover who had given her a forget-me-not to remember him by.

  She had found unguents but they had no effect on him. A terrible thought kept occurring to her. Could it be leprosy?

  As she mused one of her women thrust a paper into her hands.

  ‘The Duke of York himself gave it to me,’ whispered the woman. ‘He would have me swear to deliver it to no one but you.’

  ‘Oh, he becomes too foolish,’ said Joanna.

  ‘And reckless, too, my lady,’ giggled the woman. ‘’Tis to be hoped this does not come to the King’s ears.’

  Joanna gave the woman a sharp push. ‘There is no need to fear that,’ she said sharply. ‘I may show it to the King myself. There is nothing wrong, my good woman, in writing a verse to a lady of the Court, which is what the Duke has done. In the Courts of Provence and such places it was the natural order of the day.’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ said the woman quietly.

  Joanna looked at the paper.

  It was verses, as she had expected it would be, and from that foolish young man. She must warn him. It was gallant of him to find her so beautiful that he sighed for her love, but he must remember that she was the wife of the King and such writing could be dangerous.

  She would warn him when next she saw him, not to write so to her again.

  She left her women and went to join the King. They would sit side by side in the royal box and watch the jousts. Young Harry would give a good account of himself she doubted not and the people would shout for him. There was something about the boy which won cheers wherever he went.

  Henry’s face was grey beneath the velvet cap looped up at the side with a fleur de lys. His furred velvet mantle hung loosely on him. Joanna dared not ask him whether more spots had appeared on his skin. She could see a redness on his neck and she wondered what would happen when his face began to be really disfigured.

  ‘I see you looking in good health,’ he said.

  She smiled warmly and heartily wished she could say the same for him.

  ‘Have you seen Harry?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but I look forward to his performance. I am sure he will be the champion.’

  ‘No doubt of it. The boy gives me cause for alarm, Joanna.’

  ‘Has he been in further trouble?’

  ‘I hear stories. They think they ought to tell me. I know he will be the champion. I know that he can lead an army. But there is more to kingship than that.’

  ‘He can win the applause of the people,’ Joanna reminded him. ‘They love him.’

  ‘The people love today and hate tomorrow,’ said the King ruefully. ‘Not that they have ever shown much adulation for me. I always had my enemies. I came to the throne through a back door you might say. That is never good for a king.’

  ‘You came because the people wanted you. They were tired of Richard. And you were the next . . .’

  ‘There was the young Earl of March, remember.’

  ‘A boy! They wanted you, Henry. You were King by election. You have done well for them.’

  ‘They do not like me. Perhaps they will like Harry better . . . that is if he mends his ways.’

  ‘What have you heard now?’

  ‘That he visits the taverns of London. That h
e spends hours in the company of low people. That he throws off his royalty and is one of them. It will not serve him well, Joanna.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘I have in the past. There is an insolence about him. He is the Prince of Wales. He has the people with him. He implies that he does not need me. I believe he would be ready to take the throne from me.’

  ‘Never. He is high-spirited, that is all. He chafes against the bonds of royalty. Give him time. He will be a great king when the time comes . . . and I pray he will be a sober old greybeard by that time.’

  ‘You bring me comfort, Joanna,’ he said. ‘But there is one other matter which causes me concern . . . and were I to believe what is whispered it would bring me greater unhappiness than I suffer from the bad habits of my son.’

  ‘What is that?’ asked Joanna in surprise.

  ‘It concerns you . . . and my cousin of York.’

  Joanna flushed slightly. ‘Oh you have been listening to tales. He is a foolish young man.’

  ‘And you are a beautiful young woman.’

  ‘Not so young. But this is nonsense. He fancies himself as a poet and I am a good target for his verse.’

  ‘He sends them to you?’

  ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I read them and tell him he has much to learn.’

  ‘Of what matters?’

  ‘Of how to write verse for one; and of me for another.’

  ‘I like it not,’ said Henry.

  ‘My dear husband, trust me. I loved you when I was the wife of the Duke of Brittany but I did not tell you so. Never a word of what we felt for each other passed between us. I am a woman who respects her marriage vows and even if I felt a tenderness towards this man – which I hasten to tell you I do not – there would never be anything but friendship between us.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said the King. ‘But I do not trust him. There was a time when he was ready to support Richard against me. I might have lost my crown. Oddly enough he saved it for me. He was one of the conspirators who planned to rescue Richard and set him on the throne. He was then Rutland for his father was alive and he had not yet acquired the title of York, and suddenly he was afraid and confided in his father. My good uncle of York saw at once what must be done. I was informed by both father and son of what was afoot and so the plot did not succeed.’