The Star of Lancaster

by Jean Plaidy

  At this time a new conflict had arisen in France.

  After the death of Isabella in childbed her husband Charles of Angoulême, who had become the Duc d’Orléans when his father had been murdered, married again. This time his bride was the daughter of the very powerful and warlike Count of Armagnac. Charles of Orléans was of a gentle nature, a lover of the arts, thoughtful, with a hatred of war, but he was in the hands of his forceful father-in-law who wanted to establish the power of the House of Orléans which meant destroying that of Burgundy.

  Civil war in France was something which England could not fail to be pleased about. It was always so much better to let an enemy destroy itself than to waste one’s own strength doing it.

  The Burgundians sent to England to ask Henry for his help and offered in payment for it a bride for the Prince of Wales, Anne, the Duke’s daughter.

  Harry had no desire for the match, but he did think that a force should be sent to the Burgundians. Let Frenchman fight Frenchman. That was a good plan. There would be fewer in the field when he went over there to fight for the crown of France, which he fully intended to do when he was safe on the throne of England.

  Henry considered the matter. He was feeling very ill. Peace, that is what we want, he thought. It is unwise for us to embroil ourselves in the affairs of another nation.

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Harry. ‘It will be to our advantage.’

  ‘I am against it,’ declared Henry. ‘There shall be no force sent to Burgundy’s aid.’

  It seemed that that settled the matter; but on the day he made that statement the King suffered another attack, which was even worse than those which had preceded it. His face became an unsightly mass of horrible pustules which stood out all over it and when he touched his skin and felt them he fainted and had the appearance of a dead man.

  The doctors came and said that he could not last long, but a few days later he recovered and even his face was slightly less unsightly.

  He must remain in his chamber, though. He could not show himself to the people or even the Court. Only those in his immediate circle should see him. The Queen ministered to him; she was gentle and reassuring, though it was hard to recognise in this poor maimed shrivelled creature in the bed the romantic Plantagenet who had come to Brittany an exile from his own country.

  Harry took over the reins of government and the first thing he did was send men and arms to the Duke of Burgundy.

  As a result of his actions the Orléans faction was defeated and it was victory for Burgundy.

  The King did not die. In a few weeks he had recovered sufficiently to resume his duties. The first thing he discovered was that his son had gone against his wishes and sent troops to Burgundy.

  He was incensed. He immediately sent for the Prince and demanded to know why he thought he could act in a manner opposed to his father – and his King’s – wishes.

  Harry replied that clearly the side to support was that of Burgundy. They had won, had they not? Who knew, they might be of help to him if he went into France at any time.

  ‘Your fingers itch to lay hold of the crown, Harry,’ said the King.

  ‘I but think of the future.’

  ‘And I am such an old and feeble man that I no longer warrant obedience.’

  ‘You are the King and must be obeyed.’

  ‘Until you think me dead. You have to wait awhile yet, my son, before that crown is yours.’

  ‘My thoughts were not on the crown, only on what I believed to be best for England.’

  ‘And King Henry . . . the Fifth, eh?’

  ‘You are mistaken. I rejoice in your recovery.’

  ‘You rejoice! Look at me . . . if you can bear it. What have I become? This accursed sickness has taken hold of me, but God and all his saints, Harry, there is life in me yet and while there is I shall be King.’

  Harry bowed his head.

  The King dismissed his son. He had made up his mind; he was going to show Harry and his council that there was only one King in England and that was himself.

  He had decided, he told them, to send aid to the Armagnacs. He was going to support Orléans against Burgundy; and to show his good faith, he was going to send his son to France with troops and supplies.

  He sent for Prince Thomas, his favourite. Would to God he had been the elder, he thought; and yet he knew in his heart that this second son lacked that quality of leadership which Harry had inherited from his great ancestors. In a moment of clarity he thought: Is it possible to be jealous of one’s own son? And he wondered if great Edward the Third had ever been jealous of the Black Prince. Never! He had let the battle honours fall to him rather than accept them himself. But the Black Prince and his father had worked hand in hand. It was not the same with him and Harry; they were pulling different ways.

  Thomas came to him. Henry faced him, with his back to the light. It was a habit of his now to stand in the shadows; people knew this and had cultivated a habit of looking at him as little as possible which they knew was what he wanted.

  ‘Thomas,’ said Henry, ‘I am sending a force of eight thousand men to France to assist the Orleanists.’

  Thomas was aghast.

  ‘I thought we were on the side of Burgundy.’

  ‘Your brother is,’ answered the King wryly. ‘That does not necessarily mean that I am. But the side I favour is the one this country will support.’

  Thomas smiled slyly. Another piece of contention between father and heir. That amused him. Harry really was a little too sure of himself.

  ‘Thomas, I want to know, whom do you think we should support. Orléans or Burgundy?’

  ‘My lord, if you support the Orleanists then so must we all.’

  ‘Except your brother.’

  ‘His support would be of little use without that of you, Father.’

  ‘I believe that to be true. Your brother saw fit to act against my wishes while I was indisposed. Now I am better I propose to act against his. What say you to leading the force into France?’

  Thomas was clearly delighted.

  ‘I shall not wish you to go merely as Prince Thomas, my son. I have decided to bestow a Dukedom on you. What say you to the Duke of Clarence?’

  Thomas fell on his knees declaring that he would serve his father with his life.

  He almost forgot and tried to take his father’s hand to kiss it. Then he remembered that his father’s hands were always kept out of sight. There was a rumour that his fingers and toes had started to drop off. He did not know whether this was so for he was never allowed to see them.

  He stumbled to his feet. He could not embrace his father. He could do no more than reiterate his willingness to serve him.

  Harry knew that his father was wrong to support the Orleanists, particularly after he had given aid to Burgundy.

  ‘He is right,’ reasoned Harry with Oldcastle, ‘to blame me for acting against his wishes. I knew what they were and I should have remembered that he was the King. But he is even more wrong than I to send aid to the Armagnacs just out of pique towards me. A King should never allow personal feelings to interfere with affairs of state.’

  ‘Ah, you’ll be a wise King, Harry, when you become one.’

  ‘My father would not agree with you.’

  ‘He might well.’

  ‘He does not like me, John.’

  ‘It may be that he sees in you what he would have liked to be himself.’

  ‘He has been a virtuous man. Faithful to his Queens, and well served by them. He has at least been fortunate in his marriages. It is this accursed disease which has taken hold of him and warped his nature. He thinks it is some affliction sent to him as a punishment for his sins.’

  ‘Yet he is a man who has tried to rule his country well.’

  ‘But he would say he had to step over Richard’s dead body to do it.’

  John was thoughtful. ‘He broke his word to the Lollards.’

  ‘You are obsessed by the Lollards. I could almost fancy you are o
ne yourself.’

  ‘I am, my lord.’

  Harry stared at him. ‘You have become serious, John,’ he said. ‘I have noticed a change in you.’

  ‘Yes, I am one of them, my Prince. What will you do now? You’ll not own me as your friend.’

  ‘The Lollards cannot rob me of a friend,’ said the Prince. ‘But have a care, John. The Church does not like you and the Church has great power.’

  ‘The Church is afraid of us. And that brings us back to where we started. It may be that your father is a little afraid of you.’

  ‘There’s more to you, old man, than I ever thought.’

  ‘There’s more to me, my young bantam, than most people think.’

  ‘They were unusually silent; both busy with their thoughts of themselves and each other.

  It was Oldcastle who brought home to the Prince that there was an element of danger in his position. ‘There are some who are planning to destroy you,’ he said. ‘They know that the King favours your brother of Clarence. His action over Burgundy has set them thinking. Watch out, my young Prince.’

  ‘I am watchful,’ said Harry. ‘They shall not get the better of me.’

  ‘The King is sick and near to death. You may depend upon it there are some who believe that no favour will come to you through them.’

  Harry was aware of this and when he heard the rumour that he had taken money intended for the garrison of Calais and used it for his own purposes, he realised how serious was the threat against him.

  His enemies had a good foundation on which to work. All knew of his way of life in the past. Was a frequenter of low taverns, a man who spent his time with strumpets and gamblers, fit to be King of England?

  ‘They are right,’ reasoned Harry, ‘but that is not the whole truth. I am that wastrel. But I am something else besides; and I have always known that one day I must say good-bye to my former self and become a King and by God’s very being I swear that when I do I shall be a King whose fame will stand nobly beside that of my greatest ancestors.’

  But he had been foolish perhaps. He had followed a certain bent. He had mixed with low company. But I know them better than my father ever could. I shall know the men I rule and those I take into battle with me. My youth mayhap has not been so misspent as it would appear to be.

  Now he must throw off his light ways. He must think clearly. He must take action against his enemies. He must not alienate his father too completely. The King was too wise, too shrewd, not to see the qualities in his eldest son. He was bemused now – bewitched one might say – by this loathsome affliction which had taken hold of him; his strength was ebbing away; moreover he was persecuted by another shadow as great as that of this disfiguring disease. Guilt. The older he grew, the nearer to death, the more he remembered what he had done to Richard. There was the ghost who walked with him, who slept in his bed at nights. It was his cousin Richard.

  Harry must put an end to his father’s enmity. He must remind him that he was his eldest son; he must let the country know that there was no thought in the King’s mind to set him aside.

  It was New Year’s Day and the Court was at Westminster. Henry appeared briefly and then he was draped in a cloak which exposed only his face. He seated himself at one end of the great hall, apart from the rest of the company. The Queen sat beside him and around them were a very few of their closest associates.

  Suddenly the Prince entered the hall with a few of his attendants. Everyone present was startled because he was dressed in his student’s gown with the needle and thread which was presented to students every year, sticking in his collar. In this simple garment he would have been immediately recognisable even by those who did not know him as a person of quality. He held himself with pride, and leaving his attendants clustered round the fire in the middle of the hall he approached the dais on which his father sat.

  Harry knelt before the King who stared at him in amazement, wondering what prank this might be, when Harry unsheathed the dagger he wore at his waist and presented it to the King.

  ‘What means this, my son?’ asked the King.

  ‘I have been accused of disloyalty to you, my lord father. My enemies tell you I have used for my own pleasure funds which should uphold the port of Calais. My enemies slander me, which does not grieve me greatly in itself. All men worth their salt are slandered by those who fear their own weakness. But that I should be accused of disloyalty and a lack of affection towards my King and my own father, that I will not endure. My lord, if you believe these calumnies directed against me, plunge this dagger into my heart.’

  ‘Take back your dagger,’ said the King. ‘Do you think I would kill my own son?’

  ‘He would wish you to do the deed, my lord, if you could believe for one moment these lies which are told about him.’

  The King handed the dagger back to Harry.

  ‘Put it in your belt,’ he said. ‘’Tis where it belongs.’

  ‘So you believe me to be your good son and loyal subject.’

  ‘I will believe it,’ said the King, ‘until it is proved otherwise.’

  ‘And this matter of the Calais funds?’

  ‘We will dismiss it.’

  ‘Nay,’ said Harry. ‘I would have my innocence proved.’

  ‘Then proved it must be.’

  ‘Father, I mean that I would rather you killed me than believe I am other than your loving son and subject.’

  ‘Rise, my son. Let there be no more conflict between us. You are my heir. My first-born. We know it cannot be long before I depart this life. Let us, for the love of God, be good friends for that little time.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Harry.

  He was well pleased; he had discountenanced his enemies.

  Christmas was celebrated at Eltham in Kent, one of the King’s favourite palaces with its thick walls and buttresses. Many tragedies had been played out in it. And now he had come here to spend his Christmas and with him was Joanna, one of the few people he allowed to come near him.

  She knew the worst. Poor Joanna, who had come to England from the gardens of forget-me-nots and found life had turned out to be very different from what they had imagined it would be when they had walked together in those gardens, not speaking of their hopes and being so happy when they materialised, until they found that life was cruel.

  The cherished crown was an empty bauble bringing him nothing but care and disappointment; his once splendid body was betraying him.

  He was a sick and sad old man.

  In the great hall the revelries persisted. There must be revelries for Christmas even though the King could not honour the company with his presence. Down there they would be playing their games; they would choose the King for the night; the mummers would divert them and there would be laughter and song.

  Joanna watched him mournfully.

  ‘You should be with the company, my dear,’ he said.

  ‘I should be with you.’

  ‘Poor Joanna, it has been a sad life we have had together.’

  ‘That is not true,’ she protested. ‘It has been a good life.’

  ‘A good life! I did not know you were deceitful, wife. Look at this body of mine . . . made hideous . . . loathsome . . . I wonder you can look at it.’

  ‘It is yours,’ she answered soberly, ‘and it is my wish to care for you, to soothe your ills and be all that I promised to be.’

  ‘You have done that,’ he said. ‘I have been blessed in you as I was in little Mary. I doubt she was happy . . . any more than you. She died of bearing children . . . one after the other. Why did I not see it was too much for her? And you, Joanna, what have you had from life? Two husbands, one an old man when you went to him and the other a man persecuted by this horrible sickness.’

  ‘Let us make the most of what we have, Henry.’

  ‘Wise Joanna. For what else can we do?’

  She soothed him as best she could. She tried not to show the aversion the sight of him must arouse in her. She was fearful b
ecause she had heard it whispered that his state had been brought about through witchcraft; and because she was a foreigner whom they had never liked there were some who declared she was the witch.

  Henry did not know this. He must never know.

  She must do her best to help him live through the months ahead of them. There could not be many left to him.

  It was Lent. The King felt weaker. He had summoned Parliament in February and right at the last moment had been too unwell to attend.

  He asked the lords to remain in London, which did not please them as they must do so at their own expense.

  But they should be there. He felt their presence was needed.

  March had come, and fierce blustering winds swept through the streets.

  It was customary for the King to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of Edward the Confessor at the back of the high altar in the church.

  Joanna tried to dissuade him.

  ‘It is too cold,’ she said, ‘and you are so unwell.’

  ‘It is expected of me,’ the King reminded her.

  ‘People must understand,’ she said.

  But he would not listen.

  It was a slow and painful journey to the Abbey, but he reached the shrine and even as he did so he fell swooning to the ground.

  His attendants picked him up and it was suggested that he be carried to the nearest room and one where a fire was burning. A pallet of straw should be brought and when this was done, he was laid down before the fire in the Jerusalem chamber.

  ‘Let us send for the Prince of Wales with all haste,’ said the Archbishop.

  The King lay breathing with difficulty and he seemed to be dying when Harry arrived.

  He knelt by his father’s side. The King looked at him with glazed eyes and murmured his name.

  ‘Father, I am come,’ said Harry.

  ‘Where am I?’ asked the King.

  ‘You are in the Jerusalem chamber in the Abbey,’ Harry told him.

  The King smiled faintly. ‘They told me I would die in Jerusalem,’ he said. ‘Send in the crown.’