by Jean Plaidy
As the days passed he began to see that Catharine had been right. Neither he nor she were the kind to indulge in a light love affair. Theirs would have been too deep a passion for that. And Philippa, how she would have grieved!
He made a decision. The first thing he would do would be to bring Catharine’s husband back to her. That would show her the nature of his devotion.
He had made several attempts to bring his friend out of captivity but the price demanded by Philip had been too high.
He immediately sent messengers to France to ask Philip which prisoner he would like in exchange for the Earl of Salisbury.
Philip asked for the Earl of Moray, whom Edward had captured a short while before with great elation for Moray was reckoned to be one of the finest Scottish leaders, a man who would be a great asset to young David the Bruce.
Philip would naturally ask a great price.
Edward agreed to it.
The Earl of Salisbury is one of my greatest friends,’ he said.
And when he thought of how he had attempted to seduce his wife he was ashamed. But his desire for the beautiful Countess burned as strongly as ever.
The Earl returned to England and Edward made a truce with the Scots and marched south.
THE JOUST AT WINDSOR
THERE was a sadness in the palace of the Tower of London. Philippa had given birth to a little girl. They had christened her Blanche but it was said of her that she had hardly time to open her eyes before she was dead.
A great depression had seized Philippa. She had several beautiful children but she could never bear to lose one. And this was a little girl. Edward loved girls.
There had been uneasy rumours which had disturbed her. No one had told her of course, but she had caught whispered words; she had seen furtive looks; and she could not help knowing that Edward had conceived a passion for the Countess of Salisbury and that the Countess was a virtuous woman who had repulsed his advances, and only because of this the affair had come to nothing. But it had changed everything. Often she had marvelled at his devotion to her. She had always realized that she was not a beautiful woman, and child-bearing had not improved her figure. In the last years she had grown over plump and she had always had a tendency to put on flesh. It was a characteristic of her race. Edward himself was very handsome. Not as tall as his grandfather, Edward Longshanks, had been but well over medium height; blue-eyed, fair-haired, and with his love of finery he always presented a magnificent figure to the world. Moreover there was that aura of royalty about him which many women would find irresistible. The Countess of Salisbury apparently had not.
Edward, great king that he was, often seemed to her a child. His enthusiasms, his impulsiveness—the manner in which Robert of Artois had goaded him into the struggle for the French crown was an example of this—his love of pageantry, his delight in the joust when he wanted everyone to see him as the champion ... all that seemed to her the actions of a lovable child. And this desire of Catharine Mountacute was part of the pattern. She was one of the most beautiful women in England, Philippa had heard. Well, Edward’s Queen was certainly not that.
Poor Edward, he had been disappointed of his prize!
To her he was like one of her children, and her nature was such that she looked for the fault in herself rather than in him. She had failed him. Failed him by not being beautiful like Catharine de Montacute.
She forgave him, but it was the first time he had strayed—or tried to stray—and it seemed to her like the end of a certain pattern in their relationship.
And now she had lost her baby.
Edward had arrived at the palace.
It was the first time she had seen him since the relief of Wark Castle.
He came and knelt by her bed and kissed her hands fervently.
‘You must not fret, my love,’ he said. And she wondered whether he was referring to the loss of the baby or his unrequited love.
‘A little girl,’ he said. ‘Dear Philippa, I have been so anxious for you.’
That was real concern in his eyes. Remorse, of course. She wanted to comfort him. To tell him to forget what had happened. They had been too happy one with the other, and together too long for anything to spoil what had gone before.
He talked of the child they had lost. ‘We’ll have more, Philippa. And how blessed we are in those we have already.’
They talked awhile of the children and she knew that he was telling her that he would always love her. Even though he had seen the most beautiful woman in England and would never forget her, it could make no difference to his love for Philippa.
Baby Blanche was buried in the chapel of St Peter in Westminster Abbey. All the family were present at the ceremony—Edward Prince of Wales, Isabella, Joanna, Lionel, John and Edmund.
Cloth of gold tissue was laid on her tomb and prayers were offered up for the reception of her soul in heaven.
Edward remained with his family for a while. He was anxious for Philippa to know how he esteemed her.
* * *
Philippa had been right when she had guessed that there was some reason why her sister-in-law had not written from Gueldres.
Eleanor had, at first, been very happy in Gueldres. There had been some doubts about her marriage because her husband had been a widower at that time and much older than herself; but Eleanor had found him a kind and considerate husband, and when her sons were born she had been completely content.
After her somewhat desolate childhood when there had been whispers and innuendoes in the nursery she had not been very happy and then her sister Joanna at a very early age had been sent away to Scotland to marry David the Bruce. Life had scarcely been very happy for them. So that when she came to Gueldres she had enjoyed a contentment which she had not known before.
And when the elder of her sons, little Raynald, had been born there had been great satisfaction for the Duke’s children by his first marriage had all been girls. She had been only sixteen at that time, for it was eight years ago; and since then she had given birth to another boy.
All was well until suddenly she developed a strange skin complaint which turned her very pale skin into an extremely highly coloured one. She could not understand what had happened and none of the ointments or unguents she used had any effect.
Then she noticed a coolness in her husband’s attitude towards her. She rarely saw him and when she did it was only briefly in the day time.
One day she was out riding when her attendants asked her to look at a house some distance from the ducal palace.
For what purpose?’ she asked, and she could tell by the unhappy looks of her attendants that she had asked an embarrassing question.
The Duke’s chamberlain, who had joined the party, explained to her: ‘It is the wish of the Duke that you take up residence here, my lady.’
‘Take up residence here! My place is in the palace.’ “That is the Duke’s wish ... the Duke’s order, my lady.’ She was nonplussed and overcome with fear.
‘And my children?’ she asked.
‘They are to join you here.’
She could not understand what this meant, nor was she allowed to see her husband to ask him what his intentions were. She did not write to Philippa and Edward as she had been wont to do. She would not know what to tell them, for she had no idea what crime she was supposed to have committed.
She had never taken lovers so there could be no question of infidelity. She had always been a loving wife. It was incomprehensible.
The slight skin infection which had changed her colouring had now disappeared and her skin was as white and perfect as it had ever been. She had grown thin with anxiety, and her only comfort was in her children.
Her faithful attendants could not make up their minds whether it would be wise to tell her of the rumours about her relationship with the Duke or to let her remain in ignorance. But one of them, considering what was involved decided to tell her.
‘My lady, you must not let this happen.’
She wanted to know what.
They say that the Duke plans to divorce you and disinherit your sons. He will take a new wife and hope to get sons by her.’
‘This cannot be true. Why does he not tell me himself that he has ceased to love me?’
‘It does not seem that he has. It is said that what he must do he does sadly.’
‘Perhaps I should write to my brother. I do not understand. The Duke and I have never quarrelled. He seemed contented with our union. And my boys. You say they are to be disinherited?’
‘There have been a lot of rumours, my lady. You know how leprosy is dreaded.’
‘Leprosy!’
‘Yes, my lady. They were convinced that you were suffering from this disease. It began with change in the colour of the skin. The Duke wished to be separated from you before it had too big a hold and became contagious. They say too that a mother passes it on to her sons and for that reason the Duke wants a divorce and sons from a mother who can give him healthy ones to carry on the line.’
‘So that is what it is all about. Why wasn’t I told? Leprosy! Do I look leprous?’
‘Not now, my lady. Your skin is as fair and clear as it ever was.’
‘What I had was a mild disorder. I finally cleared it up with herbs and lotions. It has completely gone. I must ask the Duke to come and see me.’
The woman looked dubious but Eleanor was undeterred. She sent a message to the Duke but he would not receive it, so great was his fear of infection.
‘So,’ cried Eleanor, ‘I am to be discarded without a chance to show the truth.’
It seemed this was so.
She had no friends in Gueldres, only her attendants but at least through them she understood what was at the root of her troubles.
The Duke, her husband, had been a keen supporter of Edward’s claim to the throne of France but there were many nobles in Gueldres who inclined to the French. If they could rid the Duke of his English wife who was actually a sister of Edward, they could arrange a marriage with a bride put forward by the King of France and thus bring about what so many of them sought: to break the link with England and forge a new one with France.
It was imperative that she must stop this. How dared they insist that she suffered from leprosy! They had alarmed the Duke to such an extent that he had refused to see her. That did point to the fact that his love for her was not very strong. But she believed she could revive that if only she could see him.
She realized that if she appealed to Edward it could have the reverse effect of what she wanted. Now she alone must do what had to be done for the sake of her children, herself, and her brother.
She had heard that there was to be a meeting of the nobles in the palace the following week and accordingly she laid her plans.
On the day when the meeting was to take place she put on a light tunic which exposed most of her body; over this she wrapped a cloak and taking her two sons with her set out for the palace.
No one attempted to stop her so taken by surprise were they to see their Duchess and she went through to the council hall where the nobles were assembled. The Duke was seated on his throne-like chair and holding a child by each hand she went to him and throwing off her cloak and exposing much of her fair, delicate and perfect skin, she cried: ‘Oh, my lord, I have come to you to show you that the stories of my leprous condition are entirely false. If I were in that condition would it not be clear for all to see? Look at me, my lord. Look at me, you nobles, some of whom have spread these tales about me. I am whole and in good health. I insist that your doctors examine me. Here are your children, my lord. You cannot doubt that they are yours. They look like you. If you allow these calumnies to obscure the truth then, my lord, I will tell you this: you will regret our divorce and you will see the failure of your line.’
There was silence in the hall. All eyes were on the Duchess, who wearing nothing but her tunic, displayed an utter denial of the rumours of leprosy.
The Duke rose and going to her placed his hands on her shoulders. Then he picked up her cloak and wrapped it round her.
‘My lady,’ he said, ‘you are right that I have been listening to calumnies. I feared leprosy and what effect it would have on you and your sons. I dared not risk infection. But they were lies ... I do not wish for divorce. I thought it was my duty, for I must provide heirs.’
‘You have your heirs,’ she cried. ‘And here they are.’
‘It’s true. This meeting is over,’ he said addressing the company. ‘I will take my wife to our apartment.’
He then led her and her children out of the hall and as they mounted the stairs he told her how pleased he was that she was back, how he had deplored the need to divorce her which so many of his nobles had forced him to consider.
There were many questions that she might have asked but she did not wish to. It was good enough that the nightmare was over. She was back in the palace and the Duke could not do enough to show her how delighted he was that the trouble was over.
Now Eleanor could sit down and write to Philippa and tell her of the strange episode which had now ended happily.
Poor Eleanor, thought Philippa. And she chided herself for feeling that inner resentment because Edward had briefly preferred another woman.
* * *
Edward showed clearly that he did not wish to be separated from Philippa. He took great pains to display his devotion to her which she found very touching. She had never mentioned to him that she knew of his feelings for the Countess of Salisbury and he never spoke of that lady to her. Everywhere he went he wanted her beside him; and he always insisted that she was as magnificently attired as he was—and since he took very great delight in fine clothes they made a splendid pair indeed.
He decided that he would hold a great tournament at Windsor and to this would be invited all the champions of Europe. He hoped that among these would be included the French knights; and it amused him to contemplate King Philip’s chagrin in knowing that his greatest nobles were competing on an English field.
Edward, like his grandfather, had always felt a great interest in the legends of King Arthur and his knights, and he decided that for this occasion there should be a round table and that there the fairest ladies of the land, led by the Queen, should be seated with their knights whose object should be the exercise of chivalry.
Safe conducts were given for all knights no matter whence they came and this applied in particular to the French. They began to arrive from all over Europe.
This was going to be the most magnificent joust of all times. The Princesses Isabella and Joanna were to be present and there was great excitement in their apartments as they were fitted for the glittering garments they would wear. They were to be seated with the Queen in the ladies’ gallery and from there they would select the knights they most admired and perhaps one of them would wear a favour from one of them which would proclaim the lady whom he honoured.
Their father’s cousin Joan was with them. The fact that she was twelve years old—four years Isabella’s senior—gave her a certain authority and she seemed very knowledgeable to the two Princesses. There was an aura of romance about Joan. In the first place she was outstandingly pretty. Isabella had noticed with dismay that whenever Joan was present people looked at her, smiled at her, were ready to indulge her. That irritated Isabella for even her father had a fondness for the girl because she was so pretty.
In fact she was called the Fair Maid of Kent. Another reason why she seemed so romantic was because of her father, the Duke of Kent, who was royal by birth being the son of Edward the First, had been executed before he was thirty years old at the order of the old Queen and Mortimer. Joan herself did not remember him for she was only two years old at the time—but this fact and her beauty made her an outstanding personality.
Joan was very much aware of her charms and already she had admirers. One was William de Montacute, eldest son of the Earl of Salisbury, but when in his household she had made the acquaintance of Sir T
homas Holland, his father’s steward, and she was not sure which one she preferred.
‘My sister Joanna has been betrothed and almost married,’ Isabella reminded Joan, ‘and there have been arrangements for me.’
Joan tossed back her beautiful fair hair and smiled tolerantly at them. ‘Poor little Princesses,’ she said, ‘you will have to marry Princes who are chosen for you. You will have to go away to their countries and be very docile. I shall never be that, I assure you.’
She had no need to assure them. It was clear that Joan would have her own way.
She then told them about William de Montacute whose father was a prisoner of the French and whose mother was said to be one of the handsomest women in the country. ‘Of course she is old,’ added Joan complacently.
She was not sure whom she would marry, she told the Princesses. If she married William de Montacute she would be Countess of Salisbury when his father died and life in a French prison was not the sort of condition to prolong life was it? On the other hand she had Sir Thomas Holland, and he could be very rich. So the Princess would see it was a hard choice for her. On the whole she thought she preferred Thomas and being as royal as they were the title of Countess meant little to her.
Isabella was a little disconcerted that Joan’s affair should be the main topic of conversation. It was annoying that when Joan tried on her glittering garments she looked so much more attractive than they did. Joan was well aware of this and could not resist calling attention to her own charms.
Isabella whispered to her sisters that she did not believe these stories about Joan and her lovers. She would have to marry where she was told—as they would—and there would be no choice for her in the matter.
